


Watermarked

by natcat5



Series: Of Water and Roses [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Arthurian legend - Freeform, Colonialism, English History, F/M, Historical Hetalia, Imperialism, M/M, copious amounts of fratricide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-06-04 01:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6635023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natcat5/pseuds/natcat5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fae weave flowers into his hair, dance between his fingers, rest on his shoulders, and whisper secrets into his ear, of past and future. They whisper of his death, of the ocean rising and reclaiming him. They whisper of his mother, of her power, and of her weakness. They whisper of Gallia, to whom he will be bound for an eternity. They whisper of his brothers, how they will forever remain a bane, a scourge upon him. A trial that will never be overcome, and a sin that will never be forgiven. How even when he wins, he will lose, because that is the nature of the conflict, and the foundation of the island which they all share. </p><p>They whisper his name, <i>England</i>.<br/>They whisper his name, <i>Albion</i>.<br/>They whisper his name, <i>Britain</i>, even when it is not his own.</p><p>(a concise-ish history of England for st. george's day)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally supposed to be a oneshot but it became monolithic and i decided that would be cruel. 
> 
> also im not finished yet and needed to post it for st. george's day so breaking what i have into chapters is my way of buying myself time. ;>.>
> 
> Cymry/Cymru - Wales,  
> Caledonii - Scotland,  
> Eire/Eriu - Ireland,  
> Gallia - France

The sound of the sea, and the scent of death.

The two of them mixed together, pushing and pulling like the ebb and flow of the tide. This is where his memories begin. The salt of the ocean and the salt of blood. Coppery and metallic, brine and sand. Together, loud and overwhelming, before he’s even opened his eyes.

When he is born, the smell of rot hangs heavy in the air. Decay, and the pungent odor of corpses, accented by the ceaseless movement of humming flies and writhing maggots. Sounds and smells.

The sound of the waves rolling against the shoreline is the only thing louder than the buzzing of the carrion eaters. Salt the only smell stronger than that of decay. Smells and sounds.

Death and the sea; those are his first memories.

And the touch of his mother’s hand.

His mother was once very beautiful, he’s been told. The epitome of a Celtic Goddess; of power and ruthlessness and beauty. But he remembers her only as he saw her. The first sight of his newly opened eyes. Her red-gold hair falling off her head in clumps, taking chunks of dead skin with it. A bitter, unkind smile that makes her brittle face crack, gums blackened and teeth stained red. The source of the scent of death. The source of the sounds of decay.

Her hand is wizened, ripened and wrinkled with rot, stained and discoloured. Nails dirty and broken, and skin sagging where there’s any skin at all. Bone peeks through holes in her flesh, and it is this that he feels first. The first caress he’s ever given, the touch of his mother’s corpse on his cheek.

Beneath the folds of decaying skin, sloughing off her skull in lumps, her eyes glimmer, still bright green and clear. Neither hazy nor muddled with the weight of her age or the descending fog of death. She stares down at him, smiling, as her hand falls away from his cheek.

“You look nothing like him,” she says, in a voice surprisingly clear, marred only by the rancid stench on her breath, “I don’t hate you, I think.”

The first words he ever hears. He remembers his hands clutching at the tattered remains of her dress, desperate to hear her voice again. Desperate for her to touch him again. He feels her dying. He feels her leaving. He is terrified of being left alone.

“Your brothers are probably going to try and kill you,” she continues, in the same clear and curt tone of voice, “So do your best, and learn to die bravely.”

His mother whispers no soft words of affirmation, nor affords him any tenderness beyond the cold touch of her rotting hand. She doesn’t hate him- the kindest thing she could possibly say. For she hates his father, has always hated his father, and his birth has made her death imminent and unavoidable.

His mother dies there, minutes after his birth, and the last thing she tells him is to die bravely. Leaving him newborn and naked on the seashore, the smell of salt and brine the only thing stronger than the smell of death.

His name is not Arthur, nor England, nor even really Albion, yet. But this is where he is born, and these are the only words he ever hears from his mother.

The lingering sensation of her touch on his cheek fades away, and is replaced by another swelling feeling through his entire body. His heart thunders with a thousand beats that are not his own. His skin prickles, feeling fires and fights and joyous celebrations far away and close by and everywhere at once. His land, the people, his mother’s people, _his_ people.

He cannot stay here, on this beach, where his afterbirth, the fluids of rot seeping out of his mother’s body, are staining the sand. But he is too afraid to leave. He does not want to leave her. He does not want to be alone.

He is not alone for long.

True to her words, one of his brothers appears. He feels familiar, with the same eyes as their dead mother. He is a boy, but a boy that is nearly a man, and he is painted up for war.

“It is you who is meant to be the new Albion?” sneers the boy, “We will never allow it. We will tear Mother’s legacy out from the cavern of your chest before we let you, you Roman bastard, usurp her place.”

The first sound he ever makes is a scream.

It doesn’t do him any good, however. His brother, perhaps tempered by the fact that he is so young, does not carve a sword into his chest, but contents himself with stuffing him into a sack, tying it shut, and hurling him screaming into the sea.

And so, he dies for the first time shortly after he is first born. And then dies again. And again. And again. Trapped within the cloth confines of the sack, unable to claw his way out before water fills his lungs and his heart stops again.

The ones who free him are the Fair Folk. They cut away the ties of the bag and allow him to kick his way frantically to the surface, guiding him back towards his shoreline. Seasalt is crusted all over his skin, in his eyes and ears and mouth and under every nail. He heaves and heaves onto the sand, and still, feels like he is drowning. Still feels like he is being swallowed by the sea.

He senses it, then. He senses the land, the territory. His _body._ In a single moment of realization, he becomes aware of the fact that he is _surrounded_ by water. The word comes to him immediately: _Mori,_ in his mother’s language, and _Aqua_ in his father’s. A word that makes him tremble in fear.

The faeries that saved him stay with him, lead him away from the shoreline, and into the forest. They tell him what he is, who he is (Albion, now. Taken from his mother), and of the brothers he must watch for. _Caledonii_ to the north. _Cymru_ to the west. _Èriu_ further west, over the water. And, of course, his father Rome, who they are all frightened of.

They notice the way that he shivers when they mention water, and crowd around him, admonishing, tiny teeth bared and chattering in dissatisfaction.

 _You mustn’t fear the ocean, Albion._ They tell him. _Your land was born from the water, and when you die, it is to the water you will return._

“I’ve already died in water,” he says, shivering, and they all laugh. They laugh at him.

 _We mean your true death, Albion._ They say. _When your land and people are no more, it will be to the water, and nothing else. Born from water, and to the water you will return. It is in your blood. If you fear it, you will never be strong._

\--

He stays in the company of the Fair Folk, because they favour him over his brothers and will not allow them near to harm him. He learns of the humans that make up his land, his mother’s people and his people. He hears and feels them, and sees through their eyes and hurts through their skin. He feels pain and sorrow through them. And war and death. But he also feels warmth and kindness through their eyes and through their hands. He feels them embrace and he feels them whisper kind words and he feels their love and he hears them speak of love. Reverent and wistful and yearning.

He remembers the touch of his mother’s hand, and her kindest words to him, ‘I do not hate you’. And he remembers the rough, hate-filled hands of his brother before the world faded away into a coffin of cloth and brine.

There is meant to be love among families, he knows now, but he has felt none of that warmth and affection from his own. His only knowledge of that kind of warm feeling comes through echoes, reverberations he gets through the people in his land.

And the Fair Folk, of course, have no concept of love. Not even the fairies who weave flowers through his hair, or the Fae who teach him how to use a bow, or the unicorn who carries him about, or the ghosts who tell him the history of this world, and how he came to be. They are too far removed to feel or understand or yearn for it the way the humans do.

But he finds _himself_ yearning for it as the humans do. He is still afraid to venture away from the Fair Folk, to go into the human towns and meet the people whose feelings echo through him. But he chases the sensation, closes his eyes and lies back and tries to feel it for himself. He doesn’t know if he’s doing it right, for the humans all seem to feel love for each other, while the best he can do is feel love for the forests that shelter him.

The child of Gaul, when they meet, will smile at him, face round and cherubic, eyes bluer than the sky, and laugh.

“My mother once told me that she loved me,” he says, teeth bared in his facsimile of a grin, “But I think she just didn’t want me to kill her. She didn’t mean it. And I killed her anyways.”

Gallia always smells of blood, and all the water of the channel that divides them cannot wash the smell out of his skin. Albion hates Gallia. He is the first other Nation that he’s met properly, and he hates him so. Gallia is pretty but cruel. And he is older than Albion, which is an indignity that he’s worried is going to become familiar as he meets other Nation-children. He’s taller too, and already has crescents and spots of discoloured and puckered skin. War scars, for his land and for his people, a mark of growth. _And_ , to add insult to injury, Gallia’s met Albion’s father. The Roman Empire.

“He’s taking care of me right now,” says Gallia, eyes glittering, “He’s supposed to be taking care of you too, isn’t he? But I guess he can’t be bothered. You’re so far away, and there’s nothing on this silly little island except for pagans and rain. If you don’t pull yourself together he’ll never come to _see_ you _._ He’ll only come to stomp out what’s left of your mother, and put something he prefers in her place.”

Gallia preens for a moment, smile cruel as always.

“That’s why I killed my mother,” he continues, voice a bit feverish, “It was either her or-, Rome thinks I’m not his, that I’m Germania’s, and I had to-,”

His nostrils flare, and his expression twists for a moment into something startlingly ugly.

“You don’t know anything, on this island,” Gallia sneers, “Hiding from your brothers. Hiding from everyone. You think there’s something wrong with me. But that’s because you don’t know anything about Nations, Albion. Just you wait. When Rome comes, you’ll see. Ask him if _he_ loves you, since you’re supposed to be his son. Do it! Tell me what happens.”

Then he grins and tosses his hair, before heading back to his own lands. The lands that used to belong to his mother. The mother he killed.

Albion knows now, that he also killed his mother. But it’s not like Gallia at all. Gallia has his own name- doesn’t he? Gallia, not Gaul. He and his mother could have existed together, probably. _Probably._ Gallia killed her on purpose even though he didn’t have to. Albion didn’t mean to kill his mother. He didn’t _mean_ to. It just happened. He killed her by being born.

There is only one Fair Folk he is afraid of, and that is the unicorn that belongs to Caledonii. It’s in that creature’s eyes that Albion can understand a measure of the hate his brothers have for him. How much they loathe him for killing their mother. For taking her name.

So, in the end, it doesn’t really matter whether he meant to do it or not.

-

The Fair Folk desert him, when his father arrives.

Perhaps desertion is too harsh a word. Too judgmental. But they do leave his side, fleeing to the pockets of magic that they call home. The Nation, the _Empire_ terrifies them in ways they can’t articulate in human language. And so, when he arrives, they leave.

Albion is not sure what he expected his father to look like, to be like. He is certainly tall, and muscular, and tall. And he looks nothing like Albion, just like his mother promised. He has dark hair and bronze skin and smiles all the time. He smiles but he doesn’t smile like Gallia does, and he certainly doesn’t smile like a human. His smile is not cruel, but it is not kind. There is no mercy in it. His eyes are mirthful, but not daft or silly. The light in his eyes, Albion learns, is a light that comes from constant victories on the battlefield. Constant wars won and a territory that seems without boundary. Of bloodshed and wealth and an impression of invincibility. The light of Empire.

Albion does not meet his eyes often. He is afraid to.

He spends a long time with Rome, and he learns many things. He learns how to wield a sword and shield, and how to squire a mounted warrior. He learns how to make war, and how to fight so that it is not man against man, but army against army.

He learns how to grow.

He learns how to make roads to connect his people. He learns how to make towns bigger and stronger and to make defenses that last. During the time he spends with Rome, he grows from a child into…a slightly larger child. Large enough that he doesn’t think Caledonii would have an easy time of drowning him in a sack. Probably.

And in addition to the war, and the building, and the marching, when he’s with Rome, Albion lives among humans. He does not know how it is with his brothers, or with Gallia, or how it was with his mother, but Albion has spent all his time in the forest, away from the villages and towns, away from his people. He was content to leave it as so. They were a part of him, but that just made them feel even more distant, more alienated. He’d grown used to keeping them at a distance.

Rome is not like that.

Rome _loves_ his humans.

And it is love, Albion thinks, watching the Empire laugh and smile and dance and drink. It is sometimes gay and light, like skimming stones on the surface of a pond. Rome eating with them and drinking with them and lying with them. And it is sometimes deep and heavy, like a body sinking down into the depths of a bottomless lake. Rome adjusting their armour and sparring with them and kissing his commanders on the forehead and cheeks before they march to a battle. His eyes are always burning, then.

His eyes don’t burn as he looks at Albion, however. They are mirthful, usually. A little fond, a little bemused. Occasionally proud, when Albion’s managed to keep his stance proper and his hold tight during a round of sparring. But whatever Rome feels for him is too light to be love, Albion thinks. It is fondness, nothing more.

Sometimes the Roman soldiers feel like bugs on Albion’s skin, irritating and prickling and sometimes painful. Other times, they feel like they belong. Like they’re his as much as they are Rome’s. And on those days, it hurts a little, that he once again has taken on the people of a parent, and received no affection for his efforts. Gallia’s sneer always burns in his memory, on those days.

Sometimes, Albion feels as if he has very little for himself. He has his mother’s things and people and he has his father’s things and people and his mother’s name and a new name given by his father and nothing, he thinks, which he calls his own. His Fair Folk were never his, he understands now. Caledonii’s unicorn belongs to him, but the unicorn that Albion used to ride on was very much its own creature. There is nothing that Albion owns, and it’s beginning to burn. It’s beginning to feel shameful, and hurtful.

Somedays, he doesn’t know for which he yearns more; something to call his own, or someone to love him.

The time with Rome is long, in human terms. And it seems longer for the amount that Albion grows during it. But the empire leaves, sooner than Albion would have thought. He sails back over the water, back to Gallia perhaps, or back to his homelands. Albion doesn’t know. Rome doesn’t tell him.

He misses him. And he hates that he does. He misses Rome, even as within him his natures war. The people that hated the Romans, the people that welcomed the Romans, the people who tolerated them and nothing more. And the Romans who have stayed, who live here now, who are his. Rome has left Albion with contradictions and fault lines, and they ache, every day.

But he also leaves Albion with a foundation to build on, and a knowledge on how to be strong, on how to grow more. An understanding of the power that can be gained in this world. Of what can be attained if you reach out and take it. If you fight. If you push beyond your borders. Across the lands on the distant continent. Across the ocean. Rome, and Gallia, and all the other Nations that they know and war with.

Albion is still a little afraid of the ocean, of the drowning death it holds, but he starts to look towards it all the time. Because on the other side of it is…everything. Things to be afraid of. Things to anticipate. Things to strive for. Rome.

He braves his fear so that he can sit by the sea and watch. Watch for Rome to come back. Watch for familiar ships to cross the channel. Wait and wait for years and years and years until the scent of the sea on the breeze soaks into his clothes and hair and skin.

_Born from water, and to the water you will return. It is in your blood._

Albion thinks about building his own boats. He thinks about sailing across his channel on his own, but the thought of running into Gallia in Gallia’s own territory is repulsive enough to make him reconsider.

And so, he continues to wait.

Rome does not come back.

Sometimes boats of his people, of his soldiers come. Fewer and fewer as time passes. But Rome himself does not come back. He does not come back.

What had Gallia said? _A silly little island full of pagans and rain._ Nothing worthwhile. Nothing worth coming back for. Nothing worth wanting.

Nations only grow if they’re wanted.

Sitting by the shore, digging his feet into the sand, Albion does not feel very wanted.

Walking through the forest, searching for his Fair Folk friends, he does not feel very wanted.

Sleeping close to or in towns, trying to be closer to the people that are finally starting to feel like his own, he feels…He feels better, but still…

Lying in a pile of hay, eyes closed and listening to the warm thread of conversation outside the barn, Albion feels…he feels like…

“Ah- hey! That’s where I sleep!”

He opens his eyes.

\--

Love, Albion discovers, is nothing like the echoes he’s felt from his people, over the centuries.

Love is different, he discovers, then what he saw in Rome’s eyes as he oversaw his troops. Because what he saw was not what Rome was feeling, and Love is only a feeling. It is not something that can be seen. Not in its truest form.

Love, Albion discovers, is less of the feelings of affection and warmth and kindness he sought out and picked up on, and more like a red hot iron through his chest. It burns and it chokes him. It makes him cry when he’s not expecting to. It overwhelms him and closes over his head, like a wave.

Love feels like a punch some days, and a gentle touch others. It’s a kiss on the cheek, and a chaste kiss on the lips, and being more frightened than you’ve ever been before.

The feeling is so vivid, even when the memories aren’t. And centuries later, more than a _thousand_ years later, it will be the feeling that he holds onto. That feeling of loving and being loved, for the first time. He’ll cling to them, when his memories betray him.

Because there was a boy, once, with hair the colour of straw, and eyes a colour like water and storm. Perhaps gray, perhaps blue, perhaps something darker, more akin to black.

But his memories fail him, as always. They may very well have been brown.

This boy would have been gangly, bruised and scratched, left to his own devices. Unacknowledged by a distant father and ignored by an uncle. This boy would have lived among the forest, seeking education among the leaves and between the roots. Walking with hay in his hair and dust on his feet. The shimmer in the air by his ears and shoulders reminiscent of the Fair Folk, enchanted by his presence, persuaded to give him their blessing.

Or, perhaps, he was blessed by a kindly wizard. Or, perhaps, he was not blessed at all.

His memory always fails him here, as well. Time is cruel, even to Nations.

But there _was_ a boy once, and before he became a man, and a king, and a legend, he shared a bed of straw with a green-eyed child who felt fragmented and disjointed and displaced by the world around him. A child torn by war and invasion who, at the end of the day, just wanted a place to rest.

There was a boy, once, and before anyone knew who his parents were, he met his Nation, who was small, and scared, and alone, and glad for a friend who at least _appeared_ to be his age.

Or, perhaps, everyone knew who his father was, and they met within a war, within a battle, without any hope of rest.

He doesn’t know. His memory is fallible, and full of deceit and pain.

Perhaps, perhaps, the boys walked together, and play fought together, and conversed while the men around made talk of war. Both were children in their own ways, both naïve in their own ways. Perhaps they learned together, and grew together, as the world around shifted and took shape, the rumbles of battle and the shifting borders of nations and Nations fighting for their right to take up space, to exist.

Perhaps the boy became a man, and the Nation, still a child, felt for the first time what it was to be immortal, ageless, frozen while everyone around him moved and grew.

Perhaps the boy drew a sword and became a king, went to war and made the Nation understand, for the first time, the ghastly strokes of mortality, the fear of death, true death, the final death, and the weight of being an eternal witness to events you cannot directly change.

Perhaps the boy married, and the Nation felt the hot blade of jealousy, spite, irrational anger. Possessiveness. Sorrow. Pettiness.

Perhaps the boy taught the Nation what love is, better than his mother, or father, or brothers, ever could. Perhaps, in the quiet stillness of a darkened barn, in a pile of hay, with the lumbouring breaths of horses in the background, this boy gave this Nation his very first kiss, reeking of a truly human kind of innocence.

Perhaps, perhaps.

Perhaps this boy became a legend.

He does not know. Memory is a terrible, burdensome thing. And history seems determined to prove his memories, and the feelings attached to them, to be a fabrication.

But even so, there are things that he _does_ know.

There is one name that he has always felt to be his own. Not Albion, which is his mother’s name. Not Britannia, which is the name forced upon him by his father. Not even England, which is the name given to him after the Anglo-Saxons came, and everything within him changed for good.

There is one name that is his. The name that was given to him, that he took willingly, that he is holding onto and keeping safe for as long as he is permitted to have it. It is _Arthur,_ and so it will be, until the name’s original owner returns.

\--

After the Anglo-Saxons come, and after the Vikings raid, and after he is united into something almost resembling a proper kingdom by the King in Wessex, Arthur begins to treat more with Gallia.

He is not afraid of the ocean anymore. He is not afraid of water at all. Drowning is not so scary, now that he knows the worse deaths available. Drowning is peaceful, in comparison. And water is too important to him. The rivers carry trade, the ocean carries in enemies and goods alike, the waters of a shimmering lake carried his king away from him, and one day, will carry him back.

So the channel of water between him and Gallia is neither intimidating nor troublesome. Arthur can swim it well enough now, though sometimes Gallia is feeling amiable enough to simply let him step into his land. Arthur does the same usually, allows Gallia to simply step through their borders. Making him swim the channel is never as satisfying as he’d like it to be. Arthur looks like a drowned rat when he’s wet. Gallia, obnoxiously, still looks handsome with water dripping from his hair and body.

They have both grown considerably since the time of their first meeting, though Gallia is still infuriatingly taller. And still infuriatingly pretty. And still infuriating. But Gallia, or Francia as he goes by more often now, does seem like he’s trying to be less cruel. Now that Rome is well and truly gone. Now that Germania is all but gone as well. Now that there is nothing left of either of them but the dozens of Nation-children they both left behind.

And Arthur has been alone for a long time. His brothers leave him be, now. For the most part. Sometimes they fight, but it’s proper fighting. No more tying him up in sacks. They fight with men now, with armies. Rome is gone, his mother is gone, Germania is gone, and, for now, the previous owner of his human name is gone. The Fair Folk are his friends, but he is more aware of their cruelty now, of the distance between them and humanity, and he does not spend the time that he used to in their company.

Arthur would not admit to being lonesome, not to anyone, but he meets Francia on his shoreline, and on occasion, crosses the channel to meet Francia on his. And they talk.

The conversation is usually civil, though it can become scathing in the blink of an eye. Francia is haughty, and his mean streak runs deep, and Arthur is defensive when he is not abrasive. Arthur is fairly certain he hates Francia, and that Francia hates him back, but the feeling is so fervent and vibrant that neither of them can shy away from it. In the absence of love, in the absence of anything but each other and the invading nations that wish to tear them apart, hate is a good thing to fall back on.

There is a time, however, when Francia pushes him just a bit too far. It is a meeting that starts off well. Sitting by a river with relative civility, with little hair pulling and name calling. Arthur is feeling melancholic, lamenting the vestiges of Viking brutality still scattered about his land, and missing his favourite king. He makes the mistake of explaining this to Francia, who promptly bursts into laughter.

“Albion, you are joking, surely?” he asks, innocent face alight with a malicious delight. “Kings and rulers…for all their wealth and prestige, they are merely mortal. Humans come and go. Birthing and dying in the space it takes for us to blink. You must know that you’re not to think too much of them. That you’re to let them pass, and not get attached?”

“Rome didn’t teach you that,” Arthur says, teeth grit and eyes dewy, “Rome loved his humans.”

Francia laughs again, a high-pitched, grating sound. For all he claims to be on the cusp of becoming a man, his voice is still as high as a child’s.

“Rome loved all humans, and he wanted them all to love him,” he sneers, angelic face made brutish by the pitiless expression, “Maman thought he was a fool. We are not meant to be loved, not in that sense. We are Gods, nothing less, and each prince and lord we have serves us, tries to make us stronger, make us great. And when they die it is the task of the next ruler to do the same.”

He grins, his blue eyes fever bright, bare feet speckled with mud from the riverbank.

“Think of them as tools,” he says, brushing fair hair away from his face, “A new one whenever the old one wears out. Don’t get attached.”

“He’s not gone for good,” Arthur says, hands clenched into fists at his side, “He promised he’d be back. And he’s not- I don’t understand- you can _feel_ them, the people. The humans. How can you call them tools, and nothing else?”

“Yes,” Francia agrees, and it sounds like hissing, his teeth clacking together, “And I can feel them die too. Each and every one. Like warts, popping on my skin. Dying and dying again and again.” His face is ugly, for just a moment, his expression contorted into disgust, and Arthur turns away, eyes burning.

“If you had had someone like him,” he says, his voice raspy, cracking, “If you had had someone to you like he was to me, you would understand.”

“Understand what?” snorts Francia, “What love is? Now you begin to sound like Rome. Will you die like him too? Torn apart and spread to thin? Or will you drive yourself mad, holding on to those mortal lives, and crying when they slip through your fingers?”

He scoops some water out of the river, letting the liquid cup in his palms, and watching as it spills out over the sides and trickles through the cracks between his fingers.

“Just like this,” says Francia smugly, “Albion, you really _are_ a child, aren’t you?”

Arthur goes home after that. Francia follows, mocking him the whole way. That old cruelty rearing its head shamelessly. Years later, tempered by time and age, Arthur will muse that Francia was probably just bored, and lonely, and desperate for attention. That he was willing to make Arthur despise him, if it only meant Arthur would keep him in his gaze.

But his Once and Future King was the wrong thing to mock.

Arthur has only killed humans, thus far. In battle. His own immortality giving him an advantage, despite his small size. He has never killed a Nation before.

Centuries and centuries later, he’ll never know for certain whether or not Francis was his first. If, when Arthur had tired of his high, grating laughter and pushed him over the edge of the Dover cliffs, he’d been killed by the fall.

He hopes so.

He genuinely hopes so.

He doesn’t see Francia again for over a century, after that.

And when he does see him again, it’s at the head of a huge Norman force, trampling through Arthur’s country with unrepentant glee.

“See yourself as him, do you?” Arthur snarls, blood in his hair and his eyes and everywhere he can think of. “As both of them. I suppose if no one knows which one fathered you, it just makes you a bastard twiceover, doesn’t it?”

“You don’t know how much I hate having to listen to you gargle at me in those barbaric heathen tongues,” Francia sneers, swordpoint still at Arthur’s throat, “I’m going to cut, and choke, and strangle all of those words out of you. You’ve always had the potential to be beautiful, barbaric brows nonwithstanding, and now I’m going to help you realize that potential. Aren’t I being kind, Albion? Isn’t that kind of me, England? We’ll be together now. We’ll have the same culture, and the same language, and neither of us will be alone. Aren’t you happy? Aren’t you pleased?”

Arthur is out of breath. The armour he’s wearing is heavy, and too big for him and he is hot and aching and tired. It feels like something is being carved out of his chest and carved into his skin. Rome didn’t feel like this. Germania felt a little like this, but not really, because his people came so slowly, so staggered, not as a singular invading force. Arthur has _never_ felt this utterly broken, beaten down, and _conquered._

“ _No,_ ” Arthur hisses, air rattling in his chest, “ _Because this isn’t you_.”

Francia’s smug, self-assured expression flickers.

“It is your men, and some of your people,” Arthur continues, bloody smirk curling upwards, “But it is not _you_. It is not Francia conquering England. Or Gallia conquering Albion. It is some of your men taking power here. But it is not you conquering me. You will _never_ conquer me, Gallia. I will _never_ be yours.”

Francia’s expression is livid, the glow of victory fading to the ugliness of war. The sweat on his brow. The blood smeared across his cheek and chest. The steaming armour. The dirty point of the sword still at Arthur’s throat.

“Maybe so,” he spits, as furious as a raging cat, “But you’ll have something of mine anyways. You will never be rid of me, I’ll make sure of it.”

When the blade cuts into Arthur’s throat, it sings with a thousand French words, words that reverberate into his blood and his bones and all the places he can’t reach to claw them out. He tries to scream, but the gash is too deep, nearly severing his head from his body.

So they’re one to two, at this point. Arthur pushed Francia off a cliff, and Francia slit his throat and had his men take over Arthur’s kingdom.

So England will have to invade Francia eventually, just to make it even.

It’s taken centuries, but England finally understands the game Gallia’s been playing since they first met. And he’s ready to play it himself. And _win._

\--

He’s patient about it.

If he can find anything decent about that bloody Norman conquest, it’s that it finally teaches him how to be a proper Nation, at long last. He’d been a child for far, far too long, and it’s that group of entitled, high-brow men who push him into an age old enough for his voice to drop.

He gains an appreciation, as well, for the games Nations play. Courts and kings, dynasties and honour. Territory lost and gained and wars for wars’ sake. Sometimes it’s for growth, sometimes it’s for pride, sometimes it’s for fun.

They’re allowed to have fun with it; Nations. They’re not human, so they won’t die from petty border squabbles or the toppling of minor little kingdoms here and there. War is allowed to be fun. It’s how they grow, it’s how they clash, it’s what they _are_.

He understands a little, now, why Francia was so contemptuous of him when they were children. Growing up on the continent, he was born and fostered in the care of constant war. He was surrounded by Nations on all sides. Full grown Nations. Ones who knew who they were and what they were for.

Albion really _was_ a child, back then. Sheltered by the Fair Folk, secluded from the world. His brothers only hurt him or ignored him, and Rome taught him more about humans than he did their own kind; what had Albion known of how Nations lived? What had he known about anything?

He knows now.

He knows now, and Rome may be gone but his brothers- his brothers are still here. They still think they’re better than him. They still hate him for killing their mother and taking her place. They still _look down on him._

Rome never quite managed to get Eire. Too wily and wild as he is. Running around naked, battling barefoot, never having a proper kingship- when his King gets Papal permission to bludgeon Ireland into submission, England hops onto the first boat.

Eire is still taller than him, still older, with a beard and hairy chest and all. But it doesn’t matter in the end. England may be a head and a half shorter, may still be on the younger end of adolescence, but King Henry’s army is strong, and King Henry’s Kingdom is strong, and they have the church on their side. Which, England has come to understand, is a useful thing to have.

He takes Cymry as well. Slowly and leniently at first, but then with a vicious efficiency, his Norman lords leaving castles and fortresses with each step to keep the wild Welsh from reclaiming their land. And when the last Prince of Wales falls, when England’s King Edward stakes his claim for good, Cymry stares at him, sullen, and spits out a single curse in the language they used to share. England delights in responding in Latin and his Anglicized French and his appropriated Saxon. He’d never admit it, but he loves how much more refined than his brothers he sounds. _He’s_ the one who is better then them, now. And there’s nothing they can do about it. He’s too _strong._

Caledonii is…he is still a dangerous, oppressive presence looming over England’s north. Even Rome- or, at least, Rome’s people, were scared of Caledonii’s people. They made the conscious decision to not continue exploring and expanding upwards into that territory, instead building a huge wall across England’s mass, from sea to sea, to keep Caledonii out. But England is not so scared of Caledonii as he once was. He has beaten his other brothers, and so too will he beat the last.

Scotland remains stubbornly resilient, stubbornly resistant to outright invasion and attack. But England’s learning how to be patient. Learning how to… _squeeze._ Just tight enough for him to know who’s in control here. Who it is that holds the name of their shared island. And he does it, he seizes Scotland, under his thumb and rule and name, for years, for decades, until the wretch wrests himself free again. It’s enough to drive England mad. Being so close to having them all, to fulfilling his destiny as heir of the entire island. Albion proper once more. A united Britain, under one king, as it should be. A dream close enough to taste.

Something boils in his blood when France signs a treaty with Scotland. England is not certain if it is a good boiling or a bad boiling, annoyance or bloodthirsty anticipation. It strengthens Scotland against him, but at the same time, the thought of bringing the two of them to heel together makes his body shudder with glee. His very essence yearns to do battle.

There is a weariness that sets into humans, when a war drags on. When resources are depleted and land is destroyed and money runs out. Particularly when the money runs out. The deaths, the destruction of villages, the razing of land, all seems inconsequential to monarchs, until the money runs out. Then they share the weariness of the lay people, and the entire kingdom laments the consequences of war.

England feels their pain. He feels their suffering. He feels it pinging on his skin, like needlepricks. He feels it as he bathes, he feels it as he pisses, he feels it as he occasionally tumbles with some miller’s daughter or some stablehand in the dusty dark.

And he ignores it.

The war with France, the one that will one day be known as the Hundred Years’ War, is exhausting on his nation. He feels a constant ache in his bones and a headache that never abides. But he is having _fun._ He invades France again and again, and takes land and loses land and takes land again. Treaties are made and treaties are broken and every time, he and France can’t stop grinning at each other when they meet on the battlefield. Or baring their teeth at each other. For Nations, it tends to be the same thing.

It feels even better, a singing in his blood that howls, echoing down to the tips of his fingers, when he is clearly, and undeniably winning. When France is falling to him, folding beneath him like paper crumpling as it is consumed by fire.

A dual monarchy. Two kingdoms under the English crown. Four, if you include backwards Ireland and scrappy, wild Wales. France, beholden to him. Grinning, petty Gallia, forced to pay fealty to him, to little Arthur. Always smaller than everyone else. Always weaker. Always being invaded, never doing the invading.

He and Gallia are the same height, now. They stand eye to eye, when they meet. When they cross blades. When they stand beside their lords and sneer at one another. They’re both Nations, proper. And they’re both fighting to make something lasting, something powerful and expansive. When they face one another, the shadow of Rome and Germania hangs over them both, like an executioner’s axe.

Ah, but that is not entirely accurate, is it? France is beginning to look a little stooped, a little worn. His pretty face is thin, his blonde hair scraggly, more like straw then spun gold. His armour is hanging off him heavily, like his body is wasting, and his clothes no longer fit.

France’s demeanor is not quite so smug as it once was. It’s delightful to see. Certainly, the back and forth of war is great fun, but England feels acutely that conquering France for good, once and for all, will bring a feeling of sheer joy and delight, the likes of which he has never before experienced. Better than taking Eire and Cymry. Comparable only, perhaps, to how it will feel when he has Caledonii for good.

It’s irritating then, when _that girl_ springs up.

When _that girl_ stirs the defeated, sullen France into a religious fervor. When _that girl_ pulls victories out of her pointed, wench ass. A banner-wielding maiden, in arms and leathers, riding in battle, and leaving a slew of French victories in her wake.

England is willing to ignore it, for awhile. Until she gets a French king coroneted. Until she gets a crown on Charles’s head, and stabilizes what had previously been a deliciously unstable French state, ripe for the firm molding hand of an English king.

England makes it a special priority then, to see her captured, and killed, as theatrically as possible, just to get the point across.

 _Jeanne,_ the wench from Bar. She is a slight girl, though her eyes are startlingly piercing. She is unafraid of what is before her; that much is obvious. England doesn’t like the look in her eyes. It reminds him of someone.

England sits at the back, during her trial. Approves of the double-edged, impossible questions she’s asked. Is both irritated and grudgingly impressed when she escapes the more slippery word traps. He can afford her that begrudging regard since she’ll die regardless- it is, after all, a fixed trial.

It is a fixed trial, the conclusion foregone, and so she’s sentenced to death. A public burning, where all can see her punished for her crime. Officially, the crime of heresy. Truthfully, the crime of bringing hope to France.

They burn her at the stake, as is the custom for heresy, and England wonders if _he_ feels it. The look in her eyes- it was familiar. The look of… _importance._ Of someone, of a human, with _weight_ to them. King Alfred, the king in Wessex, had it. England’s- the original owner of his name, had it. And when they had left him, he’d felt it, and it had hurt.

Burning this girl, quite possibly, is the most painful thing England has done to France over the course of this war.

France no longer grins at him over tables. France no longer looks at England with anything less than sheer, burning hatred. As bright as the fire that ate up his little maid-general until she was nothing but ash.

The most poignant point of it all, perhaps, is that England feels not a shred of regret for the actions he’s taken. Neither remorse, nor guilt. He does not miss the shared bloodlust between him and France. He does not regret that they are no longer fighting for fun, against a backdrop of human death. He does not regret that they are now fighting for real, for themselves, their kingdoms and nations.

If he were human, England imagines he would miss France, and what they used to share, and regret their falling out. But he’s not, and he doesn't.

And besides, France is being awfully hypocritical, isn’t he? After all, wasn’t he the one that said human lives were tools, warts, muddy river water? It’d be just like him to forget something he only said a few centuries ago, and get all bent out of shape because England had one little girl burnt alive. But well, it’s likely France can’t help it. He is _French,_ after all, and there is none quite so duplicitous as they.

At the end of it all, a hundred and some bloody years, England no longer has the petty holdings on the continent he once had. But it may be for the better, he reasons. Those holdings, in French territory, were the reasons France looked down on him so much. That part of England’s territory was territory that he was holding _for France._ That it was territory he had lordship over, under the _overlordship_ of the _French King._ And to have that condescension cast off for good, England thinks, is worth the lost territory. Is worth being cut off from the continent entirely, existing as nothing but an island nation once more.

But, as so often occurs, what he feels as himself is not always how his people feel. Especially the rich people, who have lost money in the war and lost their means to earn back the money through the lost land. The war with France is over but there is still an agitation set deep under England’s skin.

Civil War is very different when it’s not a mess of quarreling factions, fighting over land an honour and sheep and cows. Civil War is very different when it’s fought between lords and nobles. When it’s fought over kingship.

He’s had a few squabbles, insurrections, along similar lines. When a heir died aboard a vessel and succession was thrown into question, or when some Barons got uppity and decided to grab swords to let everyone know it. But it’s been centuries since them, and even so, they pale in comparison to the War of the Roses.

In a Civil War, England’s predilection is always to support the monarch. Monarchs are what make him strong and make him grow, after all. The common people may be a truer representation of himself, but when they rise up it weakens the state, the power of his king, and the king’s ability to expand and make war on France and Scotland. And so even when his bones ache and his skin is dotted with bleeding red welts from a thousand injustices and breaches of liberty by the king, England stands by his monarch.

The War of the Roses, however, is such a genuine clusterfuck of dynastic succession and bloodlines that England can’t be bothered with either the Lancastrians, or the Yorks. He has a headache, constantly, all of his favourite places to go riding smell like death, moreso than usual, and whoever wins each new round of the war is insufferable to be around for as long as it takes their opponent to depose them again.

By the time the last of the Lancastrian direct heirs are killed, and Edward IV looks like he’s well and truly won the English crown for good, England has ultimately decided he’s earned a nice, well-deserved break from court. And humanity.

Involved in his people as he’s become, in their kings and courts and wars, it is has been a long time since England has visited the Fair Folk. They still live in his land, in the forest and deep in the hills. Though many of them have chosen to leave him and dwell beyond the Pale, amongst the rolling wild of Eire’s territory. Perhaps the bitterest of the many, many betrayals he’s lived through.

But the ones who remain in England have not forgotten him. They greet him by name, _Albion,_ which sends a pleased shiver up his spine. Other greet him by what his kings would have him be, _Britain,_ overlord, king, of the entire island. _That_ name gives him mixed feelings. It is a name his kings wish him to have, to legitimize their takeover of Scotland and Wales. It is a name that means unity, supremacy, the English having control over everything, at last. It is also a name that belonged to Cymry’s people first. A name that still, in their eyes, belongs to them. Before the Welsh were the Welsh they were called the Britons, the last of that people that survived the Romans and the Anglo-Saxons and the Vikings. And many of them hold to that ancient name still. It is not that England takes issue with taking things from Wales and making them his own, but if he starts calling his kingdom the _British_ kingdom, and his throne the _British_ throne, it just invites Wales to come in and start making snide comments about taking the island back from England and revoking his right to the name of Albion and blah blah blah everything he always goes on about whenever they cross paths or blades.

He complains about as much to the Fairies, as he sheds all his overcoats, his courtly attire, his iron weapons and armour, the glitterings and trappings of his alleged station in court, at the edge of the clearing. He sits down among them in his barest breeches, with his undershirt unlaced and loose, his hair already a mess of twigs and leaves. They welcome him, as usual.

It had been a fear of his, in his youth, that growing closer to his humans, his Kings, his purpose as a Nation, would mean distancing himself from his fairies, from the Fair Folk that raised him. But it hasn’t been so. As he himself has become more comfortable with his role as a Nation, so too has he become less disconcerted with the Fae’s childish, unthinking cruelty. Of the callous way they speak of mortal lives, and of the cold, unbiased view their longevity and foresight gives them. And so, as they weave flowers into his hair, dance between his fingers and rest on his shoulders, he sits still as they whisper secrets into his ear, of past and future. They still whisper of his death, of the ocean rising and reclaiming him. They whisper of his mother, of her power, and of her weakness. They whisper of Gallia, to whom he will be bound for an eternity. Whether enemies or allies, their fates will forever be intertwined. They laugh amongst themselves, of all the times little Albion will kill and be killed by little Gallia. And how many times little Gallia will kill and be killed in turn. They whisper, and laugh. They whisper of his brothers, how they will forever remain a bane, a scourge upon him. A trial that will never be overcome, and a sin that will never be forgiven. They laugh as they tell of his endless quest against his brothers, and how even when he wins, he will lose, because that is the nature of the conflict, and the foundation of the island which they all share. They laugh when he bristles a bit, because always, _always,_ his brothers are a sore spot. But they bite his earlobes and bruise his cheeks with their pointed feet and continue to laugh. And he allows it, because that is simply how they are.

In time, the fairies flitter away, and England is treated to the company of the tamer sort of Fair Folk. He has not seen a unicorn in a long, long time, but the forest brownies, the nymphs and spirits, exist still. He allows himself to bask in the warmth of their company, free of the riddling prophecies of the fairies, free of the serpentry of the court. Free, if for only an instant, from the troubles of his nation.

It is easy to pass into the Fae’s realm without meaning to, to lose oneself in the timelessness of it, and when England emerges, steels himself to deal with his court and king once more, it is to the news that King Edward IV is dead.

That news almost has England scurrying back to the fairies. He’s only just been through a civil war, and now there’ll be another, because Edward’s sons are children, and no one can abide a child monarch, especially not when there are still Lancastrians with boiling blood hiding and biding their time.

Perhaps he has spent too long with his fairies. With other beings of immortal nature, with even less of a grasp of human morality than he himself has. Because when the late king’s brother seizes power, when he confines his nephews, the rightful heirs, to the Tower, England cannot find it in himself to protest, to be ill at ease, to be as unsettled and outraged as his people seem to be. The young Prince Edward may be the rightful King, and his younger brother the rightful heir, but they are _children,_ and England is too familiar with the troubles child monarchs bring. And Richard might be sly but he is battle-proven and a capable leader and tactician, above all else.

He never met Edward’s children, having been vacationing away from the world of men as he was, but he knows them. Of course he does. He knows they are both fair headed, and intelligent, raised by the Queen’s clever and canny family. He knows the younger is quiet, and the older is savvy and well aware of the likelihood of his own death at the hands of his uncle. That- he can feel that clearer than anything else. Prince Edward’s torn feelings- between hope for rebellion and rescue, or less realistically, hope for mercy. And above all else, feelings of utter resignation.

England tries not to dwell on it, because if he dwells on it, he hears Edward tell stories of bravery and hope to his younger brother, to send him to sleep. He hears Edward pray to his Christian God for righteousness and justice to win. For his mother’s family to stir and right what has been wronged. He hears him mourn their late father, and all that could have been had he lived.

England tries not to dwell on the princes in the Tower, because they are children, and incapable of properly serving him, their Nation, in his greater purpose. To grow, to make war and conquer. To expand and be dominate, in his land and on his island. And, one day, across the channel, where France continues to stew in his own contempt. Child-kings are no good at making war, except internal ones. Richard III may be untrusted, and regarded with suspicion, but he is a man, and he is battle tested, and England bends his knee to him when he is coroneted, and says nothing of his deposed nephews.

He feels it of course, when they ‘disappear’.

He feels when they draw their last breaths, the oldest, then the youngest. He feels them pass, out of this world and out of his history, and he wakes, sits up, and flinches back.

The two princes are at the foot of his bed, staring.

“England,” says the oldest boy, his face pale and lips blue, eyes sunken in death. “We were your princes, we were _yours_. Our father loved you. Did you not love us? Your word holds weight, you could have swayed the people in our favour. You could have rallied them. You could have _saved_ us.”

The younger boy is silent. He holds onto his brother’s nightshirt and stares forward blankly. There is no breath left in him, and he doesn’t make a sound when his eyes redden with unshed tears.

“You must have known,” continues the older boy, “You must have felt them creeping up the stairs, you must have felt them come into our room. You know, you always know, but you say nothing. You say nothing at all.” His shaking voice echoes around England’s empty chamber. The air is cold. “England, did you hold no love for us at all? Your princes? Yours to serve, and be served by?”

His face is nearly featureless in death. He is a spirit, like so many others. A dead human, like so many others. A youth cut down in his prime, a monarch deposed by a rival, a boy who will never be king.

“Love?” England says, and he hates, _hates,_ that his voice is hoarse, ragged, when it has no right to be. “Love? No, of course not.”

He turns from them, the lost children, the Princes in the Tower.

“Princes come and go,” he says shortly, voice clipped, “It’s all the same to me.”

For some reason he can’t quite articulate, England can’t be around King Richard III after that. The sight of the man turns his stomach. For some reason. The sour taste in his mouth worsens when civil war breaks out anyways, despite having an adult King on the throne. England is tempted to retreat back into his forests, but something in his gut tells him to stay. And so he does. In London. He does not step on to the battlefield, when Henry Tewdwr, a Lancastrian with Welsh roots and a tenuous claim to royal lineage, challenges King Richard for the throne.

England stays in London. He stays there, and is there when news arrives of Richard’s death in battle.

And so begins the reign of the Tudors.


	2. Chapter 2

King Henry VII is a man who knows how easily a kingship can be toppled, and has the determination to prevent it like England has never seen before. He is-, he cannot deny, he is enamored with the man. Henry is ruthless, and efficient, and the strongest king England has had in a long, long time. And England _feels_ stronger for it. He has not grown in awhile, a long while, but under Henry he feels himself stretch just a little taller. Feels the reediness go out of his limbs, muscle definition where previously there was little. The weight of court and crown and human affairs feels a little less heavy, and feels a little more like it’s doing what it’s supposed to. Making him stronger.

The only issue he has with Henry, really, is his preoccupation with appeasing the Welsh and their silly notions of supremacy.

There seems to be a prevalent belief among the people of Wales that King Henry will make good on his Welsh roots, and that he is Cymry’s _Mab Darogan,_ the hero prophesized to claim the entire isle for the Welsh. England does not think Wales his brother is foolish enough to hold any stock in the words, but plenty of Welsh people seem to see Henry’s ascension to the throne as fulfillment of the prophecy. That through him, the Welsh have gained control over the kingdom, over the English, and have taken the title of the true rulers of Britain. It would be laughable, if it didn’t irritate England so.

Because they invoke _his_ name, his Once and Future King Arthur, numerous times in their assertions. They claim that King Arthur is _their_ king, a Welsh king, and that _England_ is the power that he will drive out when he returns. Which is just one of the many reasons England can’t stand to be around Wales, and is as dismissive of him as possible. It doesn’t help that King Henry continues to cater to these Welsh delusions. He’s already won the crown- he doesn’t need to pander to them for support anymore.

England has no qualms with his King naming his first son and heir _Arthur,_ but it sours it, knowing that he named him thus to gratify his Welsh followers. To feed their hopes of King Arthur ascending to the throne as a Welsh king, overlord of the English. England’s sour feeling only worsens when the Prince Arthur does his very best to reverse some of the oppressive laws keeping the Welsh in check, pushing his powers as Prince of Wales as far as he can bend them. Everything about him, everything he does, rubs England the wrong way.

He feels a perverse kind of relief when the Prince dies before he can be crowned. He also feels, somewhat illogically, that he has once again won a victory over Cymry. There will be no ‘Welsh’ King Arthur ascending the throne of England after all.

That small blip nonewithstanding, England enjoys King Henry VII’s kingship, as he hasn’t enjoyed a kingship in a long while. He mourns him genuinely when he dies, and hopes that Henry his son, who has only been heir a short while, is up to the task.

Henry quickly proves himself to be ruthless, like his father before him, and swift in his rooting out of any potential roots of weakness to his kingship. He rises even higher in England’s esteem by invading France.

Desperately, France pulls up that cursed, thrice-damned, blasted _Auld Alliance,_ and convinces the king of Scotland to invade England while Henry is away. But Scotland is no match for England, not anymore, no matter what he might think, and the King of Scotland is killed in battle. The Scottish invasion is short, and barely notable.

Regrettably, the invasion of France is also short-lived. A new Pope comes to power, and insists on peace between the Christian nations. France is all too happy to concede. England sulks.

It really is irritating, England thinks, how one’s every move must be approved and stamped by a fat old codger in Italy, because of the God they all swear to serve. England has known many gods in his time alive, and the Christian one seems the most demanding, by virtue of negatively affecting England’s ability to kick France in the balls. It’s maddening.

The peace goes through, or makes spirited attempts to, and King Henry and King Francis meet near Calais for diplomacy and a fortnight of festivities. With a backdrop of ornate, dazzling tents, and the sounds of ‘friendly’ jousting competition echoing in the background, England and France meet face to face for the first time since the burning of that girl. Between them sits a bottle of wine and a distance of centuries.

“France,” England says, as amiably as he can manage, which is not very.

“England,” says France, in a tone quite an impressive number of levels above murderous. He’s managed to slap a perfectly lovely smile on his face, dripping with polite welcome. It’s full of teeth, which reminds England of their old days. The ones that involved a lot of teeth embedded in forearms. England misses those days.

“You have quite,” France’s words are bitten out, face still stretched in a smile, “The fiery little Welshman leading you, do you not? I’m certain you’re very pleased with this Tudor family, and all they’ve accomplished. It’s nice to see you’ve made up with your brother well enough to let him pick you up by the bootstraps and give you a proper monarchy at last.”

The barest bit of cordial smile that England had forced onto his lips drops away entirely. There’s a moment, a long moment, where his mind goes blank, where rage strips away all thought of retort or response. His stomach twists so violently that bile fills his mouth, and his next moments are spent swallowing thickly, while trying to stop his entire body from trembling with anger.

France always did have a talent for hitting England’s weak points with an assassin like precision.

It takes far too long for England to gather himself for a reply, and he knows it, and France knows it, smirking like a bloody cat. But he sets his jaw and lifts his chin anyways.

“I assure you,” England snarls, completely failing to inject false pleasantry into his voice, “The Tudors are quite English. Their success is a reflection of my own power, and no one else’s. And don’t concern yourself with Wales. It’s bad enough you insist on sticking a hand up Scotland’s skirt every bloody chance you get.”

“It’s a kilt, not a skirt, you’d know that if you stopped trying to kill him long enough to have a conversation,” France sniffs, “Or made an attempt to show him any kind of respect.”

“I didn’t realize we’d come here to discuss the rebellious barbarians infesting my island,” England spits, “Just get to the groveling, so we can go back to our kings and report that we discussed peace, as promised.”

“As usual, your definition of ‘peace’ is slightly flawed,” France replies haughtily, “It reeks suspiciously of unreasonable concessions and English brutality. I’m sure you’re pleased your new dynasty is so fond of red; you needn’t worry so much about getting out the bloodstains.”

“Just because you enjoy milksops as monarchs does not mean I need to consign myself to the same,” England sneers. “It’s disgusting, how you hide behind the Pope to avoid war.”

“Christian nations shouldn’t fight,” France says, in a nearly singsong voice, “That pagan blood certainly runs deep within you, doesn’t it? If you don’t like it, I don’t see why you don’t just clear out of the domain of Christ altogether. Go on, say what you think of the Pope to his face. See how your proud ‘English’ king fairs against a united Christian Europe.”

“‘A united Christian Europe’, England repeats, a little smile quirking his lips. “That’s not what I’m hearing. I’m hearing some portly upstart is causing quite a bit of problems for our dearest Holy Rome. Christian unity is not quite what it used to be, hm?”

France scowls. England preens. They’ve each won a round, this meeting.

As a rule, England is neither here nor there with religion. His people feel it strongly, their love and affection for Christ, and his God. But he has known many Gods, his mother’s Gods, his father’s Gods, the Gods of the Viking invaders, the Gods of the Saxons, and the Gods of the most downtrodden and unrecognized of his people, Gods tied up and nearly indistinguishable from the Fair Folk.

And he is aware, of course, that he himself. He, as a Nation, and all those like him, are akin to Gods in many, many ways. He does not disbelieve in the God of the Christians, but he has too much of a medley within him to be comfortable with being utterly beholden to him. Especially if his chosen representative on earth is really an Italian man with more money and alcohol than anyone preaching against the sins of possession and vice ought to have. Having the church on your side helps, frequently, in justifying conquest, but the institution and its leaders can make themselves an unbelievable nuisance in the blink of an eye. England is happy to have them at a distance.

He is amused then, by the absolute chaos that is rapidly seeding itself in the belly of the continent. A religious Reformation, starting in the bowels of that young Empire, the Holy Rome himself, and rippling outwards with a speed that is both alarming, and amusing. Christianity splintering into Catholic and Protestant, and then splintering even more, tearing the Nations of Europe apart. England is grateful, again, for his channel, and the way in which it is so much harder for continental violence to seep into his island.

And in any case, he is preoccupied with his own feelings of unease, deep within himself. Something is going to happen, in his own Nation, within his own borders, and it’s going to change things. He can feel it.

It is only when King Henry starts writing frantic letters to the Pope, utterly consumed with the idea of divorce, that England begins to suspect that the change he has been sensing might come in on the tide of the religious Reformation, and that he may not be so far removed from the problems of the continent as he once thought.

But the problem seems self-contained, initially. King Henry VII wants to divorce his wife due to her failure to produce a son, and needs Papal permission to do so.

Queen Catherine is not an unpleasant woman, England has no quarrel with her, personally, but he is discomfited, as his king is, by the lack of a male heir. It is less to do with England’s belief in the inherent weakness of woman, and more to do with his absolute hatred of succession quarrels and civil war. A strong male heir is the best thing to avert such disputes. A female heir will have rumblings, pretenders, men with dubious familial relations to the royal family crawling out of the woodwork in order to lay claim in the place of a woman. And, heaven forbid, most of these upstarts will probably come from Wales, distant Tewdwrs.

And so, while England has nothing against her personally, having proven herself to be absolutely incapable of giving male children, he stands with Henry’s decision to entreat the Pope to divorce her.

Additionally, he likes the new object of Henry’s affections: Anne Boleyn. He likes her a lot. He likes her far more than he liked her sister, Henry’s mistress, who was so blindly in love with him that it was pathetic to watch. Anne is clever, and certain of herself in all the ways that are important. She is confident, but knows the limitations of her own position, has carefully watched the mistakes of her sister and refuses to let herself submit to the King. She will not be a mistress. She will only be a Queen.

The Pope’s refusal to allow Henry to divorce Catherine so that he may marry Anne just seems to prove England’s hangups about being so beholden to one man, a continent away, in the name of religion. He understands Henry’s frustration, his anger. He understands it, even as it makes that same anxiety bubble hotly in his stomach. He feels it, and feels it, until the feeling breaks, like a blister full of coals, popping and scattering the heat across his skin.

King Henry VIII breaks with the Catholic Church, spectacularly so. He declares England a Protestant nation, plunging them into the hellscape of the Reformation that’s swallowed continental Europe.

For England, it feels suspiciously like a civil war, and yet nothing like it. Unease rolls across his skin in waves, nausea constant. His head pounds with hundreds of thousands of dissident voices of protest and acceptance. His chest aches with it. His skin ripples and itches. Such a sudden and rapid change can be nothing but uncomfortable, painful, and he is frequently hunched and throbbing in his efforts to endure it.

And in the center of it all sits his King, pleased and anxious and conflicted, all at once. Born and raised Catholic, but determined to marry his Queen, and willing to upturn his nation to do it. And so it is done. They are Protestant, now.

Queen Anne is beautiful and elegant as she is crowned. Henry is proud and fierce, as he must be to defend his actions and positions. The clergy rattle and rage in England’s bones, the monks moan and claw as their lands are seized, pain shooting through his veins. England sits, and endures it. In his land, though there are protests, and violence, there is not _war,_ not really, and that’s all he can ever ask for.

And besides, he likes the idea of a Church of England, run by the English king, his Nation no longer beholden to a portly man in Rome. He likes the idea of that quite a bit. And so he sits, and endures. The discomfort of religious change is nothing compared to the pain of war. Of civil war. And hopefully, with Henry’s young new queen, such a war will be avoided.

England develops a keen and close friendship with Queen Anne, sitting with her frequently, and conversing with her often. She is bright, and intelligent, and both pleased and nervous to be pregnant. She is assured of her right, her capability, to rule as Queen. But she knows, and is rightfully afraid of, the way in which the gender of her unborn child could make or break her fate. England can offer her no assurances either way, but walks with her through the gardens, offering her his arm and comfort.

She gives birth to a girl.

A beautiful girl, with clear open eyes and hair that reminds England of his own mother. Her name is Elizabeth.

It’s a blip, but not a sentence of doom. Or so he tells Anne, whose face has been drawn and wane, of late. Henry has no grounds to divorce Anne as he did with Catherine, England tells her. And Anne is not past childbearing age, as Catherine was approaching, England tells her. She is safe. Queen Anne is safe. She is young, and beautiful, and intelligent, and English. She is England’s queen, the one Henry chose with his heart. The one he defied Rome for. The one he recreated his nation’s religion for.

and

he

has

her

Beheaded.

It has been a long, long time since England has visibly and vocally opposed a King on anything, but he is as adamantly against the trial and condemnation of Anne Boleyn as he is ever been against anything. They say the word of a Nation has weight, that in order to properly ensure the will of the people is exercised, a Nation must always stay close to their ruler, in order to sway them properly. But England’s word means nothing. Henry is blinded by rage, disappointment, fear that he’s ruined his nation and his chance for salvation to marry a woman who has failed to bring him a male heir. Who has failed his expectations, and his hopes, and all attempts to soothe his failing confidence in himself. A woman who is headstrong and independent and refuses to give up the fiery spirit and demeanor that he initially fell in love with, and has now grown to loathe.

Henry has Anne accused of adultery with a slew of men, including her own brother. Witchcraft is also on the absolutely exhaustive list of unreasonable accusations, and in the end, on the Tower green, she is beheaded.

A king’s duty is to serve his Nation, above all else. And Henry has done that. Like his father, he has made England strong, and amassed wealth, and broken them away from the oppressive hand of the Pope. And the beheading of Anne should not change how England feels towards the man.

But it does.

He cannot stand to be around Jane Seymour, Henry’s new wife. He is disgusted by Henry, becoming engaged to her the day after Anne’s death, and marrying her 10 days later. And he is disgusted by Jane herself. She had been one of Anne’s ladies in waiting, and England feels the betrayal on her behalf.

As a Nation, he cannot help the satisfied feeling in the pit of his stomach when Jane gives birth to a healthy male heir. But as himself, he continues to despise her. He misses Anne, and he is too busy still mourning her to bother mourning Jane when she passes from complications from the birth before the month closes.  

Henry marries three more women, divorcing one and beheading the other for adultery, the court becomes a mess of conspiracy and executions, and England thinks, sullenly, about France’s comment about the Tudor preference for the colour red.

Red seems to colour everything. It hovers constantly at the edges of his vision, reflects in the low light of the candles and fire. The palace stones seem hued with it, the walls and floor and ceiling. The smell of blood lingers, in his nostrils and the air. Caked under his fingernails and in the cracks of his skin. By the time Henry announces his intention to invade Scotland and properly unite their crowns, that inescapable red has become almost comforting.

Henry had fully incorporated Wales into the kingdom nearly ten years prior, but that had been all legality, the imposition of the law of England and the annexation of some of the Welsh Marcher lordships. There had been no battle, no bloodshed, just Wales coming to sit sullenly and silently in the castle, to recognize the union. The battle-led invasion of Scotland is something much more familiar, to England. Blood and battle and his brother. Nothing like the confusion of court, of personal favour and the duties he needs as a Nation. Missing Anne’s smile and not being able to look Prince Edward in the eye. War, war on Scotland, is much simpler.

England marches into battle, as does his brother. Scotland dies on his sword, blood frothing up from between his lips. The Scots lose, the king dies, and the regent promises to marry his daughter, Mary, to Prince Edward. Blood still stinging his Nation’s eyes, Henry turns to France, and invades there. England marches into battle, and France meets him, blood staining his teeth. The English army is repulsed, and France follows, invading England for a turn, before he too is stopped. They fight, they run out of money, they sign a treaty and fuck behind a hedge.

There is nothing but battle and blood in the air. The Tudor red is an all-encompassing thing, a monolithic beast that swallows and consumes and devours. It feels, it feels fever bright and heady, alcoholic in the way it drowns England’s senses and makes everything taste of iron and salt. It makes him feel alive, like a proper Nation, to war and war and war again. A court stained with death. The singing of his sword through the air. To war and war and war again.

Scotland, duplicitous bastard he is, repudiates the treaty that they had signed, and Henry sends army after army to try and subdue him. Scotland is there each time, but England never again gets close enough to kill him personally. And when it becomes obvious that nothing will come of these endeavors but stalemates, England stops accompanying the campaigns. His King has disappointed him not just in court, but in war as well.

England well and truly cannot stand to be around Henry VIII anymore. His failures are tied to his nightmare of a temperament, and the foul stink of rot constantly hanging around him. For the last of Henry’s days, England keeps his face turned from his King, the stench around him too foul, and his contempt of the man too strong.

When Henry VIII dies, his son by Seymour succeeds him. Edward VI is nine years old, and Arthur’s teeth are grit as he’s crowned. But the boy does not do terribly, for his age. He, and his Lord Protector are both more Protestant than Henry ever was, and do their damned best to thoroughly convert the realm. It is not painless, the country rolls and rumbles, but England is thoroughly enjoying the break from Catholicism, and as time passes, he is able to look at Edward without poorly concealed disdain. Under him, war with Scotland continues to rage, as brutal as the English can make it, and the haze of red of the Tudor dynasty continues to hang low and seething over England’s eyes.

Then Edward dies of an infection in his lungs, at age 15.

A sick, uneasy feeling spreads through England, then. Henry’s daughter Mary is next in line for the succession, but she is Catholic, and more than a little Spanish, and on his deathbed Edward tried to denounce her.

But it is to no avail, and within nine days Queen Mary has assumed the throne of England.

The people are not unhappy at first, are not adamantly against a female monarch, are pleased with a smooth and seamless succession, and England allows their general pleasure to soothe his own unease.

Rebellion occurs only when Mary announces her intent to marry a Spaniard, a Catholic, and a member of the monolithic Hapsburg House that controls nearly all of continental Europe. Prince Philip of Spain. A man who, if given the key to the English crown, would pull the island nation into the mess of Nation-states that make up the sprawling mass of the Holy Roman Empire and its satellites. Austria, Spain, and all the rest. The fear of _that_ is almost enough to have England side with the rebels, against all his inclination to always side with his monarch.

But the rebellion is squashed, quickly and decisively. It leaves the last Tudor heir, Elizabeth, imprisoned first in the Tower, and then placed under indefinite house arrest, and clears the way for Mary to marry Philip, the ruler of Spain, who is now to be joint ruler of England for as long as Mary is alive.

Spain spends the entire marriage ceremony grinning like an absolute buffoon. Little Romano is with him, as Prince Philip has been given the crown of Naples, and so Mary becomes Queen of that too. But England knows, as Spain knows, as the Holy Roman Empire knows, that her Queenship is puppetry, and that the marriage has all but placed England under the thumb of the Holy Roman Emperor and his damnable Hapsburg House.

Spain offers England a hearty handshake of congratulation, a ‘welcome to the family’ that is far too tight to be amicable. His young Italian charge kicks England in the shin, and then runs to hide beneath Spain’s cloak. England grabs the strongest liquor he can find and retires to his rooms.

To start, Mary is well aware of the tenuous opinion of her. Of how deep the roots of Protestantism now run within England, and how wary of Catholicism, Spain, and the Hapsburgs, her people are. And so she is at first careful in how she broaches her desire for religious reforms, and appeasing to the highly Protestant parliament.

Her compromising demeanour does not last long.

The fears of the people, of England, are realized swiftly and brutally. Queen Mary does her damndest to erase everything done by her father and brother, to shove the country back into Catholicism as forcefully as possible. Anti-Catholic practices and sentiment become punishable by death, public burnings of Protestants become commonplace, and the country is plunged into an era of blood, of burning, of death and fear.

“We will have you fixed, rightly enough,” Mary says, her English carrying just the slightest hint of a Spanish accent, “We will have you back in God’s graces, my dearest Nation.”

England turns his cheek. His skin is flushed and burning.

Queen ‘Bloody’ Mary dies early of illness, and leaves only a murderous legacy, and an even deeper fear of Catholicism within her subjects. She has no heir, and so Philip’s, and Spain’s, and the Hapsburg’s claim to England is lost. For England, it’s like a weight has been lifted from his chest. The kingdom breathes a sigh of relief, and turns to the next heir with nothing but expectation and desperate hope.

Elizabeth Tudor ascends to the throne.

\--

When Elizabeth was under house arrest, implicated in the rebellion against Mary, England had visited her, once. She had been pale, reclusive in her rooms. Her hair had been left loose, and with the red curls tumbled onto her pale shoulders, face un-made up and clothes unadorned, she had looked very, very young. The uncertainty of her fate, when no one could say whether or not Mary would have her executed, had hung between them, weighting the mood. And still, she’d spoken to him with firmness of tone, and stubborn pride squaring her shoulders. England remembers the conversation well.

“Did you visit my mother,” Elizabeth asks, face turned from him, “The eve before her execution?”

England swallows. The lingering of a quelled rebellion simmers his blood. Mary’s anger makes his head pound, and the uncertainty of Elizabeth’s fate turns his stomach. He is tired, and the memory of Anne Boleyn hangs heavy.

“I did not,” he says. “Your father would not allow me.”

Elizabeth turns her gaze towards him. Her eyes are clear like her mother’s, but not as challenging. They hold something of her father’s once inscrutable nature.

“There is something I have always wondered upon,” she says, her voice carrying only the slightest waver, “I pray you take no offence.”

England hesitates, and then nods once. “Ask.”

“You cared for my mother,” she says, “You alone have spoken well of her to me, when all others are afraid or unwilling to do so. You have made claims to her as your favoured of my father’s queens.”

“It is so.”

Elizabeth lifts her chin, eyes stubborn, even as her mouth trembles. “Did you lie with her? If all the other allegations of adultery were false, was there truth to be found in one unstated? In a man no one speaks of? Were you, my Nation, the reason my father made the charges? The one who made them true?”

The question, the sheer brutal honesty of it, takes England completely by surprise, and he is speechless for a damnable number of seconds. In that time, Elizabeth’s expression crumples, and then hardens, before she begins to turn away from him.

“ _No_ ,” England gasps out, finding his voice at last. “ _Never_. I cared for her, Elizabeth. _Yes_ , she was my queen, but not my queen as a she was your father’s queen. _Never_ that. I am a Nation, not a man, Elizabeth. My words and actions cannot always be taken in the way you would take another’s.”

Elizabeth turns back towards him, her expression still hooded and uncertain. A silence stretches between them, until finally, slowly, something in her face settles a little.

“You have never had relations with a ruler?” She asks, brazen as always.

A memory springs to England’s mind unbidden. A chaste kiss when he was no taller than Elizabeth’s waist, if that. When he was not yet England. A thousand and some years ago. But that is not what she means, and he knows it.

“No,” England replies, “Never.”

“Did you love none of them?”

“Love?”

“You say you cared for my mother.”

“I did, very much.”

“But love?”

He stifles a sigh, barely held exasperation. “I wish you wouldn’t attempt to assess me as you would a man. It will only upset and disappoint you in the long run.”

“Is that your way of saying you have loved none of your queens, none of your monarchs, in all your life?”

“My dear, I have barely _liked_ the vast majority of my monarchs.”

“Does that include my sister?”

England’s face must do something distinct, because Elizabeth lets out an unintended huff of laughter. His indignation evaporates instantly. He is glad to see her laugh. He is glad to see her smile, if only for a moment.

“So you lie with and love none of your rulers,” she says, when her brief levity has faded, “And it is only they who know you for what you are. Are you not lonely?”

Her eyes are curious, but also sympathetic, and the pity infuriates England for half a second, before he remembers her age, and remembers the differences between them.

“Elizabeth,” he says, a little chastising, “Remember my words. Think not of me as a man. I am a Nation. I am beyond it.”

Elizabeth does not look very chastised.

“Beyond loneliness?” she asks.

England sighs.

“Beyond love.”

He stiffens.

“Beyond lust?”

He looks back at her sharply. “Elizabeth-,”

“I’ve spoken out of turn, I apologize.” She says quickly. “It is merely that there are many things I have wondered, for a long time, and I fear I will never again have the opportunity to ask them.”

The reality, the uncertainty of her position inserts itself once more into the room, choking it. England’s expression shutters, and then softens.

“I can make no promises,” he says, honest, “I can assure you nothing. But your sister would be foolish to kill you, and her councilors are all doing their best to make her see that. And that is more than your mother had.”

Elizabeth’s eyes are unreadable, and for a long moment she looks startlingly like her father, as he was in his prime. The image shatters as she turns her head, a stubborn set to her mouth and sullen blink of her eyelashes that is all her mother.

“I suppose then,” she says, voice toneless, “All we can do now is pray.”

England remembers that conversation clearly as he watches Elizabeth be crowned. The court is glowing, riding a tide of hope at Mary’s death and the freedom from Spain and Catholicism and persecution. Watching her beautiful younger sister crowned, holding herself with grace, power, and independence. England feels his breath go out of his chest, replaced with elation. He watches her ascend, and his entire self swells with a joy he cannot articulate.

Later, when he remembers Elizabeth, it will be a layered picture, each and every of her many selves, one on top of the other, painting a complex and multifaceted image of the girl, woman, Queen, he loved more than anything.

The girl, guarded and dutiful. Haunted by the mother everyone else was under orders to forget. Burdened by sharing her features, cursed with her father’s hair and blood but not welcome to his crown. Navigating a sea of half-siblings and succession plots. Protestant reforms and Catholic attempts to undo them. Clever and canny and strong, above all else. She had to be.

The woman, still guarded and cautious. Clever and sharptongued but more inclined to hide it than allow others to be privy to her wit. She could entertain England for hours when they were both away from court. Away from the politics and duplicity that ruled both their lives. The tumults within their nation had been a weight on both of them. The legitimacy of her royal blood always in question. The extent to which she was a threat or an asset to the throne always in flux. England could do little to comfort or reassure her, other than be by her side, in the same way she could do little to calm the upheavals surging beneath his skin, only sit by him as he weathered them.

The Queen.

An entire lifetime of concealing and reinventing her nature, of reflecting what others wanted her to be in order to protect herself, left Elizabeth with an impeccable ability to perform a persona. And England could see it clearly, as she assumed the crown. She was regal, but warm. She was proud, but humble, stating clearly her intent to govern with the close aid of counselors. Sorrowful of her Catholic sister’s passing, but having a coronation rich with Protestant elements. She straddled the line between the strong monarch people wanted, and the deferential woman-creature that people preferred to see. Too strong a personality would make the men uncomfortable; too weak would have her deposed.

To say she was a false person would be untrue, and hypocritical. Elizabeth, England thinks, was very like a Nation in the way she reflected her people, and what they wanted, and what she needed to be to keep the country stable and strong. She was moderate in religion, except when she needed to be firm. She was defensive in foreign affairs, except when she needed to be aggressive. She was demure to Spain, except when she had fleets of ships harass them. She was indecisive and needy around her counselors, except when she was stubborn and unyielding.

She was, above all else, pragmatic and adaptable, and when he remembers her, it is with all of her personas blurred into one, radiant picture. A woman of many sides and many things. A strong monarch, a Queen, the last Tudor rose.

The Tudor in her was strong, blood-red and deadly-thorned. Her father’s daughter, and the crimson of his ruthless lineage showed again and again. Against Spain in the Netherlands, in Ireland, whose howls of outrage and pain echo across the Irish Sea, and against Spain again, across the many seas of the globe. The ships of Elizabeth’s privateers leaden with stolen treasure, staining the waves with Spanish blood.

“I tire of fearing Spain,” Queen Elizabeth tells him, her hand in his, “I tire of fearing the Germans, I tire of fearing the Ottomans. I would have you be an empire, to rival them all.”

She kisses England’s knuckles, and then lowers his hand. From within a folded handkerchief, she presents him with a simple gold ring.

“Reforged from Spanish gold,” she says, and the candlelight reflects in her eyes, red flame dancing high, “Captured on the way back from the New World. We have planted our own feet there now. In time we will have a colony to rival the Spaniards’. An empire to rival theirs.”

She touches his cheek gently, and England allows himself to lean into the touch, eyes locked with hers. Just now, he is struck by how different her eyes look to any other human’s. How nation-like they are. That light of conquest and blood and the core of battlesteel that never wavers, however much the world around changes. Were King Arthur’s eyes like this, as well? He can’t remember.

“An empire,” she repeats, her voice like a serrated blade. “I will not let Ireland wrest itself away, I will not tolerate Scottish insurrection, I will not let Spain cow us. You will be an empire, the greatest the world has seen. I will lead you there, as your Queen. I have no king, will never have a king, and my devotion is solely to you, my Nation.”

“You are determined then,” England’s voice is hoarse, and he can’t explain why, “To never marry.”

Elizabeth lifts her chin. A familiar gesture, a proud gesture, a gesture he loves. “I am joined under God by my crown to England, and only to England will I remain true.”

Her words hang between them, and England stares at her for a long moment.

Then he takes the gold band from her palm, and slides it onto the ring finger of his left hand. He lifts his chin, matches his gaze to hers, and inhales, smelling her perfume as she leans in.

Loving her as a girl, a woman, a Queen, is different then loving her as a lover. She is girlish again, giggling with her hair loose. She is wry and furtive and cautious, until he takes her hand and guides her, and until she takes his hands and pins him. She is powerful and changeable and fun and passionate and sweet in his arms. Her hair falls like a curtain around them as they kiss. It’s enough to create an illusion of being completely alone, secluded, a world where it is just the two of them. As if England was not in himself, hundreds and thousands of others. But like this, the two of them intertwined and shielded in each other’s embraces, he can pretend, a little. He can pretend he is something less than that, or something more.

They are lovers, he and Elizabeth. England never takes the ring off, and she holds to her promise of never marrying, proclaiming to anyone who protests that she is married to her nation, to her people, and to England.

When she dies, the mourning is widespread, and deep. She reigned long, and strong. She was a Virgin Queen to the public, a War Goddess to the masses, near infallible to large parts of the population.

To England, she was his dear, dear Bess. And when she dies, he feels it. A deep ache inside his chest. A pounding in his head, and tears that drip unbidden, rolling down his cheeks and off the tip of his nose. She was the last of the Tudors, the last of that rose-red family, and still, he feels her death _personally_ more than he feels it as a Nation at the end of a dynasty, about to be subject to the merciless winds of change.

The succession of course, is a jolt of reality that is cannot be ignored. Elizabeth left no heirs. The most suitable candidate for the English crown already sits on the throne of Scotland. And that, _that_ is nearly intolerable, the idea of being ruled by a Scottish King. He is a descendant of Henry VII, yes, but he has been born and raised Scottish. James is a Scottish man, a Scottish king, and the idea of going from Bess to him is sickening.

And yet, it must be done. There is no one else.

It is not an official union of Scotland and England, thank God, just a personal union of rule under King James, but England knows he will have to treat with his brother _peacefully_ because of it. And he knows Scotland will be insufferable for it. He already has Wales crowding around and living with him more often than not; he doesn’t know if he can handle knocking elbows with Scotland in a semi-civilized way on top of that.

Shortly after the decision is made, finalized, Wales and England dine together. Under Henry VIII, they had been made to do so more and more. All of the Welsh lords speak English now, behave in the English manner. There are no high positions for people who speak Welsh in Wales, not any longer. The Welsh people have been made to adhere to English law and custom, and clinging to old practices leave them with nothing but discrimination. Wales has not been conquered by England as Ireland has. Wales has become part of England, swallowed by England’s language and law. A better outcome than his brother could have hoped for, England thinks.

As irritating as his sullen presence can be, not being at each other’s throats does give England to complain to, even if it is Wales’s predisposition to reply only with monosyllabic answers.

“I don’t think it’s too much to ask,” England grumbles, stabbing viciously at his dinner, “For an Englishman to assume the English throne and rule England. To think there was really _no one else_ but a Scot?”

Wales makes a noncommittal grunt, as usual.

“I understand, I know why Elizabeth has no heir,” England’s voice breaks only a little on her name, “But if only she had a surviving brother, even a closer male cousin. Anyone with the Tudor name. Anyone in _England._ ”

Wales looks up at him briefly, then looks away with a muffled sigh.

“There is just no reason,” England continues, because he really is _very_ bothered, “To have a Scottish king brought over here. There is just no reason not to have anything other than an Englishman on the English throne.”

“Or,” Wales says, speaking for the first time, “Welsh.”

England looks at him sharply, brows furrowed. “What?”

“On the throne,” Wales says, turning towards his younger brother with dark eyes, “Englishman, or Welshman.”

“Oh, ha,” England relaxes and smirks, sitting back in his chair with humour, “Well that would be a sight to see, wouldn’t it? Scotland, at the very least, actually has a monarchy to speak of. You haven’t been able to say that for quite some time. Interesting thought, but best to put such ideas to rest, I’d say.”

Wales keeps staring at him. England doesn’t like the way he’s being looked at, and he stiffens a little, straightening out of his relaxed posture.

“You’re doing it again,” Wales says, gaze unbroken, “You’re forgetting.”

England’s eyes narrow. “What?”

“You’re doing it again,” Wales’s tone is angry now, his brows set low above his eyes, “You’re never content with just our land, are you? You have to take everything else as well. Anything and everything for yourself, to fit the image you want. You brat, still a thief who lives in a world of delusions-,”

The rush of angry words from Wales is so unexpected that England is stunned, allowing the tirade to wash over him, before he rises to his feet in a swift, violent movement.

“ _Hold your tongue_ ,” England snarls, slamming his hands on the table, “Who do you think you’re talking to? Where do you think you _are_? You can’t speak to me like that, you worthless rabble, you can’t speak to me like that anymore-,”

“Because you rule me? You and your Scottish king?” sneers Wales, not rising from his chair, “So terrible, so unbelievable to be ruled by a Scottish king, when you only just finished with a _Welsh_ dynasty.”

The words strike like a thunderclap, and England recoils a moment, cold washing over him. “I-, What?”

“The Tudors were _Welsh_ you insufferable, blind, delusional whelp.” Wales’s voice is low, his anger as cool and jagged as the mountain-tops of Snowdonia. “They were Welsh when they were crowned, and their name remains Welsh. You haven’t had an ‘English’ monarch in years, but you blocked that, forgot it, pretended it to not be the case, as you always do.”

England balks a little, despite himself. Yes, yes that’s…right. The Tudors came from Wales. He hadn’t, he hadn’t _forgotten,_ but…But they had been in England so long that it hardly mattered. Three generations was plenty to consider them properly English, so Wales, really, had no leg to stand on with his impetuous criticism and England is going to tell him that, he’s going to tell his brother to shut up and-

“And the worst part is,” Wales continues, a rumble in his tone, and then a crack, “This isn’t the first time. You’ve done this before, you thieving little liar.”

“Stop it,” England commands, finding his voice again. “You can’t speak to me like that, you’re not allowed to. If you don’t hold your tongue-,”

“Like a child,” continues Wales, contempt and hatred dripping from voice and eyes, “With your hands pressed over your ears, pretending you can’t hear. Well I’m tired of it. Would you like to hear another forgotten truth about another of your beloved monarchs, you foul runt?”

“ _No_ ,” England replies sharply, and then, remembering himself, “I mean, I’ve told you to _hold your tongue._ Don’t forget whom you’re beholden to, you backwards upstart. Don’t forget who rules you now. And if you don’t remember your place-,”

“King of the Britons,” Wales continues, savagely, “Don’t you remember who they were? The Britons? They were the last of Mother’s people. The vestiges that only just survived the Roman conquest. Until Germania’s men came and all but stamped them out.”

“I,” England is finding it hard to breathe, “am aware-,”

“You Roman bastard,” Wales is leaning forward, his voice a poisonous growl, “Rome made you but Germania shaped you. You are English, an Angle, of the Anglo-Saxons. Don’t you understand what that means? How the story really goes?”

“ _Shut_ ,” England is breathless, “ _Up_.”

“The Britons are _my_ people, the last of Mother’s left, the true remains of Albion,” Wales shouts, rising to his feet at last, “Arthur was _my_ king, and _your_ people are the ones he tried to drive away!”

The words are like a physical blow, and England staggers back. The ground rocks under his feet and he feels, dangerously, like he’s about to faint, and it’s only by clutching the table edge that he maintains his balance.

It’s not true, he knows his memories, he knows who he is, and he won’t stand here and let Wales do this to him. He will _not_ be pushed around by his brothers anymore. He will _not_ let them hurt him anymore.

“I’ll kill you,” England snarls, reaching for the sword at the side of his chair, “ _Again._ If you don’t-,”

“The ‘Britons’ are the Welsh. They’ve always been the Welsh,” Wales is walking around the table, unafraid, approaching England with dragonfire brimstone in his eyes. “Your foul kings took the term because they liked the idea of being kings of the entire isle, as Arthur was. But he was not an English king. He was _never_ an English king. He was a British king, when British still meant the Britons, and the last of the Britons are my people, the Welsh. _We_ are the true heirs of Albion. Britain is the entire island, as it should be, under the Britons. Under _us._ We are the last of their people. Not you, _never_ you.”

Wales stops so that he is standing directly in front of England, their noses almost touching. England’s hand hovers over the hilt of his sword, shaking.

“Arthur was _my_ king,” Wales says, voice quiet, but vicious, “And you took him from me and made him yours. And you changed the stories and the songs to make him yours. And you mocked me and my people when we claimed he would return and make the isle ours, because you’d convinced yourself he would return only to make the isle yours. But he was never your king, England. You didn’t just take his name. You took everything true about him, and changed it to justify your own delusions. _I_ am the red dragon of the Britons, and _you_ are the white dragon of the Angles. Our enemy, our invader, and everything Arthur fought against. So tell me again how you can’t abide by anything but an English king. You are false, you are a thief, you are not mother’s heir but her murderer. You’ve given Scotland no peace and brutalized Ireland and stolen everything from me. My name, my king, my language and laws. And if I’m to die, if I’m to fade away because you’ve taken everything that makes me a Nation, then I will die with you knowing the truth. That there has never been a Nation as false as you, and that all your beloved monarchs, King Arthur, _and_ Queen Elizabeth, were of me. So protest Scotland’s king as you will, but know that it has always been the monarchs of your brothers that you looked to for greatness, and never your own. _Thief_.”

It’s the last word Wales says before England wrests his sword out of its sheath and runs him through, right through the heart.

Blood bubbles through his bared teeth, and he falls, eyes still open and defiant, their mother’s eyes. Red spreads across his clothes as he collapses onto the floor, that bright red, that red of the Welsh Tewdrs.

His last word echoes around the empty hall.

_Thief._

Throughout his childhood, England’s only fear was never having something to call his own.

_Thief._

Of having his mother’s things and his father’s things but never anything of his own.

_Thief._

Of being smothered by his brothers until there was nothing left that was his own.

_Thief._

All he has ever wanted is something to call his own.

_Thief._

No, that’s not true. He’s also wanted to be loved. To love and feel loved. He’s wanted that for longer than anything. And he thought he had had it. Twice, he thought he had it. His Once and Future King. His Good Queen Bess. A love and a lover of his own.

_Thief._

His sword is still sticking grotesquely out of Wales’s chest, even as he begins to slowly shudder back to life. England watches as his brother’s Nation-body sluggishly tries to heal, to bring itself back. But Wales is weak, his language and culture being swallowed, his people accepted only if they become Anglicized. Wales is disappearing into England, and one of these days, he’s going to fall and not get back up.

England, blankly, steps forward and pulls the weapon out in a single motion. He watches as life twitches back through his brother’s limbs just a little faster, and numbly considers drawing his sword across Wales’s throat, again and again. Cut out all his words for good, make him into nothing.

Instead he stands silently, waiting. He waits until, finally, his brother sits up, blood down his chin and a sullen question in his eyes. Wales is waiting, probably, for England to stab him again.

Like this, kneeling on the floor with his clothes stained with blood and his eyes dark with grim resignation, with the knowledge that he’s beaten and that at the end of the day he is nothing, is how England has always wanted his brothers to look. From the moment Rome sat him down and told him that if he grew and trained, then one day he _could_ do this to them, could break them down to nothing, he’s wanted to look and see them like this, at his feet.

Looking at Wales now, all England can think of is how much he looks like their mother.

_We are the true heirs of Albion._

England closes his eyes.

He throws down his sword and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In simplest terms, the British isle was inhabited by the Britons. Then the Romans came, and sometimes they killed the Britons, and sometimes the cultures coexisted, and sometimes the cultures integrated, and so this period is called Romano-British. Then the Anglo-Saxons came. They were Germanic tribes. Over a period of time, they worked upwards and took over essentially all of what is now England. The word England comes from 'Anglo'. The first King that all of England was united under was an Anglo-Saxon King (Alfred the Great). What was left of the Britons were either Anglicized or driven away. And where they were driven was basically Wales (and a place in England called Cornwall). 
> 
> In Arthurian legend, Arthur was the King of Britain, uniting the entire isle, and defending the Britons against Anglo-Saxon invasion. The most familiar iteration of his tale comes from Geoffrey of Monmouth, who was Welsh, but an Anglicized Welsh. It's generally assumed the story was meant to be a keystone of Welsh pride, tied up with an idea of uniting the British isle into one unit again, but it was later taken by English Kings, and used as justification for _them_ uniting the British isle under the English crown. Make sense? cool.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who commented! It means a lot

England does not say a word throughout the coronation of James I.

He does not speak to either Scotland or Wales, who are both there, and sitting next to one another. He does not speak to King James himself, or to any of the Scottish family he brings with him. He does not speak to any members of the court, and sensing his mood, none of them attempt to speak to him either.

The moment the proceedings are finished, England retires from court altogether. He left it rarely throughout all of the Tudor reigns, but he leaves it now, to head for one of the homes established for him, and him alone.

He bounces back and forth between Devonshire and York, for some time. But Devon is too close to Cornwall, whose people are far too much like the Welsh. And York is too close to Scotland entirely. He settles in Oxford, which has always been one of his favourite cities. It is a place of learning and discussions. Great debates and great writings. While here, it is easy to become engrossed in a new field of research, or find oneself engaged in conversations that last hours if not days. Oxford is a place made for busy work, and a perfect place for avoiding getting lost in one’s own thoughts.

And more than anything else, England cannot be alone with his own thoughts right now.

He will not think of the words of Wales, or the smugness of Scotland. It is safe to think of Ireland, but only as an outlet for future violence. He does not, at the moment, feel like sailing across the Irish Sea to chase down his last brother and attempt to once again bludgeon him into submission, but it is always an option that is on the table.

Instead, he thinks a little of the New World. The place across the ocean. A place of wealth and riches. Of bloodthirsty, godless pagans. A place where salvation and ruin tread hand in hand. England has heard much of the land there, of its vastness, of its untapped potential. But to him, a Nation, it sounds like a place best suited for hungry men eager for glory. Nations conquer Nations, not swathes of land. Empty territory with the occasional bands of barbarian hostiles is for his men to tame, not he himself.

But the idea of a place free of quarreling European Nations becomes more and more appealing, as time passes. The establishment of a colony there, Jamestown in Virginia, peaks England’s interest. A place free of Europe and its bloodshed and quarrels and painful, painful history. A new world, ripe for exploration, and new beginnings. A place to clear his mind, away from his own court and king and bitter brothers.

And so, when a new fleet of pilgrims sets forth, England joins them. Across the sea to the New World. To New England. And to whatever that Nationless land may bring.

But the land is not Nationless.

Not only is it full of other European Nations, investigating with eyes as hungry as his own, but it also has a woman. A representation of the Old part of the New World, dark-skinned like the wild people that infest the land. Tall and painted, armed and aggressive, but weak and sick and failing as more and more European ships land on her shores.

But the New World does not just have her.

The New World also has _children._

Nation-children.

Altogether, England has to commend Spain for keeping such a tight hold on these secrets. The secret that there _are_ Nations in the New World, but that the adults are dying and the children are being caught and kept as quickly as the arriving European nations can find them. Portugal is here as well. The Netherlands has made a claim. Even Finland is around. And France has been here before, and will be here again. England wonders if France has found a Nation-child of his own. The idea of France having something England himself does not irks him more than he’s willing to admit.

He is delighted then, when he finds one.

In the long grass of an unmarked territory in an unmarked land. A child, with hair the colour of wheat and eyes a brighter, bluer colour than the ocean, a darker colour than the sunlit sky. A child, alone and unguarded. Where is his mother? Does he not have one? Some Nations, England knows, are not born from another, but merely spring forth as themselves, like the Netherlands and his siblings. Some Nations are born, and live parts of their lives with their mothers, like France, and like England’s brothers. And some Nations, like England himself, kill their mothers by existing, and taking their place.

Perhaps that ill, dark-skinned woman-Nation is dead now. Perhaps she has been slowly splintering and disappearing into this passel of Nation-children, and this boy is the last, the final marker on her grave.

The child doesn’t know of any of this, of course. He is alone, far away from any of the other children, any of the others who have already been grabbed by Spanish or Portuguese or French hands. He has never met another Nation, has only played with the wild animals about his land, and mingled and interacted wide-eyed with his humans, knowing nothing further than the sky above him and the fields around him. His eyes reflect a little of that sky, something like storm in their center, of rain and thunderclouds. Something powerful, something not made to be contained.

England looks at him and his heart aches.

England’s Nation-child, his little Alfred, named after another man he knew with eyes like storm, a man he _knows_ to be his own, reminds him far too much of himself as a child. Isolated from the realities of Nationhood, a childhood of nature and wild, a painful wide-eyed innocence. The similarities between Alfred and the child England once was checks and tempers the way that England interacts with him. Because England knows that he is here, in the New World, partially to find new places for his people to live, and partially to use the land here to make money and profit to send back home. He is here, when it comes down to it, to expand his empire, just as all the other European Nations are here to do. As Spain has been doing for decades. And England also knows, as everyone does, that Spain has been treating his Nation-children in accordance to those kinds of goals. Mercilessly.

But England cannot treat Alfred so. He cannot treat him as- as merely a colony. The way Spain treats his children, the way England himself has been treating Ireland for years. But America is not Ireland. It is a new land, that needn’t adhere to the old rules. A chance for a new start, a new way, a _better_ way.

 _It is possible to be a brother without being a right bastard about it._ Everything in England’s experience tells him that this is not true. That family bonds between Nations are always bloody and full of death. That sharing a past means nothing of the future, and being raised by someone does not mean they won’t turn on you, or desert you, or be killed by you. This is what it means to be a Nation. Understanding and embracing it is the only way to grow.

Against all odds, England wants to protect Alfred from that.

Does England wish someone had protected _him_ from all of that? The Fae did, for a time, in their own way. As much as they could, anyways. But that had made him weak, hadn’t it? He’d only grown strong, grown capable, when he was forced to confront the realities of being a Nation head on. The war and chaos and pain and death.

If England shields Alfred from that, he’ll never be strong. Nations need battle to grow. They need blood to grow.

But perhaps…England can take it on himself.

New England- America, is a part of the British Empire, and so responsibility for it falls on England and his soldiers. He can defend it, and protect it, and build towns and help it expand as Rome did for him, and America can grow without having to fall head first into a world of carnage, bloodshed and treachery as England himself had done. England will not let anyone tie this child up in a sack and drown him. England will not let anyone shove this boy over the edge of a cliff and dash his brains out on the rocks below. That’s not what England wants for America. That’s not how he wants him to grow. He _shouldn’t_ grow like that. Not here, not in this place. America is-

America is-

America is a breath of fresh air. A land where the scent of corpses and war hasn’t sunk into the very foundations. A place where the past doesn’t choke out hopes for the future. Where something new and vibrant can take root and grow. Can grow watered by potential and hope, and not by blood.

America is-

America is bright and curious and intelligent and full of energy. He isn’t cruel and he isn’t callous and he has never met another Nation besides England and his brief encounters with the Netherlands and France. He does not know of how they live. He has only his own experiences to fall back on, and his own short memories to inform how to behave. He does not know of how Nations are meant to interact with one another. How they are supposed to live.

America does not know, and so, England does not have to act.

It feels like rediscovering a self long-forgotten. A self buried by time and pain. A self he’d thought had disappeared centuries ago, when he had learned what it meant to be what he is. But England feels aspects of that self returning; not just in the way he behaves, but in the way he sees the world. For so long, he has seen everything in terms of conquest, defending against it and inflicting it on others. In treasure and money, stealing and protecting. Of war and succession, of territory and battle. And there is a little of that in America, but there is much, much more of everything else.

To be able to see the world again, through a child’s eyes. To see the wonder in the rivers, in the trees and sky. To play a game of tag in a grassy meadow. To pick flowers for their beauty, to lie amongst them for their scent and simplicity. To think not of Kings and court, separated from them by an ocean. To think not of brothers and lies and thievery. To think not of war. They all still exist, they are all still a problem, but they are so far away, and they seem insignificant and small compared to the wideness of Alfred’s eyes.

England could lie back and listen to his boy laugh for hours on end. It reminds him of rolling in a pile of hay, grinning wide and senselessly happy, with his boyhood companion, his one day to be King Arthur, laughing at his side.

The shadow of the words of Wales sours the memory, and England shuts it away, before his mood can blacken. When he is in America, Europe must stay in Europe, or he will never be able to appreciate the land for what it is.

The simplicity of farming, of tending to the land personally, rather than through exploiting the peasantry. Teaching Alfred which food is safe to eat, and how to hunt, to take care of himself. Teaching him how to read- Languages come to the boy easily, without study, as is the way with Nations, but reading him stories, teaching him _literature,_ is something else entirely. And Alfred is always alight with it, bright smiles whenever he’s sat beside England, listening to him weave a rich story. Sometimes it’s Shakespeare, sometimes it’s the older stories, the ones not written down. The boy’s attention span does not always permit him to sit still for the duration of the tale, but while his attention is held, he is wide-eyed and captivated, and England soaks in the undivided adoration.

He tries to teach Alfred something of his own childhood, of the Fair folk, but the magical creatures of America do not come out for the boy. They do not flock to him as the Fae of England’s land do for him. It is possible that as his Fae were terrified of Rome, so to are the one’s in America terrified of England.

America does now know this, however. He cannot see them at all. It is a keen difference between them. England wishes- it is such an important part of him, the magic woven into his being, and he wishes he could share it with Alfred.

But then again, the boy is terrible at holding his tongue, or keeping secrets at all, and the last thing England would want is to have Alfred experience his first death by being hung as a witch. So, perhaps, it is best that the boy seems to be lacking in magical affiliation entirely.

America grows quickly, and that’s both awe-inspiring and validating. It is not that the land is devoid of war and quarrel- the interactions with the old inhabitants are frequently brutal and bloody. But it is not a war of Nations, and there are no Nations for Alfred to war with. Only two siblings now, and one caged in by France and the other shackled by Spain.

And yet, he grows.

He grows bright-eyed and happy and eager, never having felt death, never experiencing a single blow on his own skin. And here, here is _proof_ that Nations themselves do not _need_ violence to grow. They can flourish without bathing in blood. They do not need to have the sun and sky shattered from their gaze to become powerful. America has a youth untouched by the kind of violence, death, and carnage that marred England’s own. So different. So new.

Knowledge that a land, a Nation, like this exists makes it so, so much harder to return to Europe.

As much as he loves America, the land and his boy, staying away from his own territory for too long fills England with such profound discomfort that he can never remain for as long as he wishes to. It doesn’t help that Alfred clings to him, begs him to stay, doesn’t understand why he can’t come as well. It doesn’t help that every time England returns, Alfred is a little taller.

It soon becomes unnerving, how fast the boy grows. England was a child for near a thousand years, and America’s cheeks are already losing their infant roundness by the time James I’s son comes to the throne. Already approaching late childhood when the seeds of civil war begin to sift and agitate beneath England’s skin a score of years later.

And then, England must leave again. To return to his nation, where war is brewing once more. He must leave before it begins to show, before the discord erupts into something he can’t hide from America. Something he can’t shield him from.

Before he goes, England collects Alfred into his arms, ignoring his squirming and feeble protests. He sits with his chin resting on top of the boy’s head, quieting the twisting fear and worry inside his chest with America’s warmth and vibrancy. Has their ever been a Nation born and raised like this? In peace? Without fear? Without ever knowing the sensation of death stealing the breath from their lungs, the blood from their veins, the beat from their chest? Who has always had everything, and never lacked for anything?

“England, are you crying?” Alfred asks, head tilted back as he looks up, blinking. “Why?”

Is he? England hadn’t noticed. He passes the back of his hand across his eyes and smiles downwards thinly. “I do not wish to leave you, pet. And yet, I must.”

Alfred makes a whining sound, a keening in the back of his throat, and reaches up with both hands to press his palms to either side of England’s face.

“Noooo,” he complains, bottom lip wobbling, “Don’t go! You’re always gone for _ages._ ”

“I’m sorry, Alfred,” England says, and he has never been so sincere about an apology in his life. “I must go. There are problems to attend to at home.”

“Why can’t _this_ be your home?” Alfred whines, insistent.

England smiles down at him, sad and wistful, and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“In many ways, my dear boy, it is.”

“But you still can’t stay?”

“I still can’t stay. It is not my land, you see. My home perhaps, but not my land.”

Alfred blinks up at him. “It’s _my_ land.”

“Yes, it is.”

“But I thought _I_ was yours?”

“You are pet, you are. But…we have rules, we Nations. We can…we can have ownership- we can have control over each other’s territory, but unless…” he struggles for words that are soft, kind. That don’t illuminate the brutality of their existence. “…Unless certain conditions are met, we cannot _be_ the land we’ve taken…the land we control. That will always belong to that land’s Nation.” It is the reason he still cannot spend any length of time in Wales, or Ireland. It is still not _his_ land, and never will be unless his brothers die.

“Oh,” says Alfred, deflated. And then: “I don’t get it!”

England laughs a little, some of the heavy atmosphere dissipating.

“Of course you don’t,” England he says fondly, running a hand through the tumble of golden hair on Alfred’s head, soft and healthy with the glow of a successful, growing colony. How could a Nation like this, who knows nothing of death or conquest or true war, understand? His dear America. His innocent, untouched New World. Of course he doesn’t understand.

Alfred kicks his feet in the grass, toes wiggling. Then he bursts from England’s hold, breaking the cage of his arms easily, and spins with his limbs flailing.

“Play with me _all_ day today!” Alfred commands, manners tossed to the winds, as always. “And let me sleep in your bed! Otherwise you’re not allowed to leave! I’ll hold my breath and turn blue and float up into the sky and away away away!”

“Don’t demand things, Alfred,” England tries to be admonishing, but his tone is too soft, fond. He is altogether too soft, and too fond. All his edges and deadly-sharp ends are sanded away, when he is with America.

He lets the boy pull him upwards by the hands; lets Alfred lead him through the field. The day is bright, and sunny. Alfred’s smile is like the sun and sky itself, and England holds onto it, cherishes it.

But all the while, his skin continues to crawl and ache with pains from across the ocean. Alfred’s love and adoration, as blinding and warm as they are, cannot stop the rolling waves of war that are about to break over England’s kingdom.

And so, the next morning, England departs, leaving Alfred staring after him from the doorway of their mansion in Virginia, one hand clutching the frame. The sight haunts him as vividly as the spectre of war.

England makes it home just as King Charles raises his royal standard at Nottingham, calling all men to aid him in his war against Parliament, who are firmly entrenched in London.

If anyone had suggested such a war to him half a century ago, the King versus the Parliament, England would have laughed at them. The _Parliament,_ and not even the House of Lords, but primarily the House of Commons. The lesser gentry. _They_ are the ones rallying the people against God’s anointed King. It is absurd, laughable.

But laughter dies in his throat, as he feels the tight, iron grip that Parliament has on London. They hold his capital, and even as he stands by King Charles in Oxford, the monarch’s chosen opposing capital, the beat of his heart skips and wavers.

The grievances that Parliament hold against King Charles are not entirely unfounded, but so to are the issues that the King holds against Parliament. They are both wrong, and they are both right. The key difference between them, England thinks, lies in the way they lead.

Charles is uncompromising. He is King- and so he should be obeyed. It is his right, and history supports this view. The brazen affronts Parliament has dealt him, for the duration of his reign, would have resulted in dozens of executions had they occurred in the reigns of his predecessors. The streets of London would have ran red, if parliament attempted to treat Henry VIII as they treat Charles now.

Parliament- Parliament leads through discussion, through collaboration. It’s boring and it’s tedious and it relies far too much on asking people what they want instead of telling people what to do.

But.

But it is towards this that the people of England seem to be swaying.

The gentry- they prefer this leadership, in which they have a voice. The peasants- they prefer this world in which they cannot be arbitrarily punished, but must be fairly tried. His country- his nation-, they are turning away from the divine right of kings.

England- he stands beside King Charles, and his eyes are distant.

He, himself, prefers kings to Parliament. Things get done so much quicker with one man in charge. War is easier, with one man leading. Hadn’t Parliament spent the past twenty years choking Charles’s ability to make war? Refusing him the money needed to attack France, to join the war on the continent, to punish Scotland’s impertinence?

 _But humans grow weary of war._ It is a truth that he knows. He can understand it- at a distance. He is not human- he is a Nation, and he enjoys the game of war. He knows the game of courts, of kingly diplomacy, and appreciates the way it leads to war- and he knows parliament is a different creature entirely. At least, it is in this decade.

The way time changes things- it leaves him in a bewildered kind of wonder, thinking about how impossible such a war- a war of Parliament against king, would have been under the Tudors. It just would never have happened. The people- the people wouldn’t have allowed it. Wouldn’t have wanted it.

But now…

More Englishmen flock to Parliament’s army then the King’s. The bulk of the King’s forces come from _Wales._ The Welsh fear what will happen to them under the hyper-English Nationalism of the Parliament. Fear what the Puritans will do to their conservative, High Anglican religion. When it looks like Parliament will win the war, just on the basis of who has an actual army raised to fight, it is the Welsh who put a sword in King Charles’s hand.

At Oxford, Wales stays blessedly out of England’s way. In an unexpected stroke of decency, or perhaps out of some measure of self-preservation, he has chosen not to needle or poke England about the matter of his King’s Welsh troops. Or even mocked him for the civil war at all. Wales has much ammunition to use, at this point. Scotland has shamed Charles, refuting his attempt at imposing his will upon them, and Ireland is rebelling, bloodily and brutally, massacring English settlers in droves. The only brother England has any measure of control over at the moment is Wales, and all things considered, that leaves a terribly sour taste in his mouth.

The complexities of everything…of his kingdom, of the social and religious politics that make people side with either King or Parliament, of the constant strife and discord between him and his brothers…it makes his chest ache with longing for America. For the simple fields, untorn by war. For his boy, small still, with eyes wide and smile as unconditional as his affection.

As a child, all England ever wanted was to be loved, and now he is, and leaving Alfred is torturous, every time. Moreso when all that welcomes him in his own land is war and death, par for course.

The hope had been that the discord between King and Parliament would be decided in one decisive battle, and whoever won would take the dominant role in government forevermore. But the first battle ends in a stalemate, and after that there is no hope for anything but a protracted, bloody war. With Parliament securely walled into London, and the King constantly drawing in new support, there’s no chance for anything else.

And so war drags on for years. The King almost takes all of England, then Parliament pushes and takes territory back, and so on and so forth, until England aches nearly too much to stand, and spits out blood constantly, while the King’s court, crowded in close quarters in Oxford, watch on pityingly.

Another reason he hates Civil War- too often, the physical pain makes it impossible for England to stand beside his chosen side in battle. King Charles rides in the field with his men, and England yearns to ride alongside him, but his body refuses.

Or…

No.

It is not his body, but his mind. Or, more aptly, his heart. London is in the hands of Parliament. Parliament- who are meant to represent the English people.

England’s heartbeat skips, and wavers. It is out of step with his actions. Who in this war is right, and who is wrong? Who deserves to rule his nation, the divine monarch, or the representatives of the people?

 _The monarch,_ England tries to say, _I will always stand by the King._ But the words turn to ash in his mouth. A fire rips through Oxford, then a pestilence, then the plague itself, and it appears more and more that the Christian God of his people may be trying to tell him something.

It occurs to him, that if his body wasn’t incapable of standing, he may have found himself appropriating a horse and riding to London, pulled by the forces, by the sentiment, that he can no longer ignore, no matter what tradition may dictate.

In any case, it doesn’t matter, in the end.

The Royalist armies are destroyed, one after another. Wales can provide the King with no more troops, while Parliament has convinced treacherous Scotland to join them and send army after army.

And so, Parliament triumphs over King.

King Charles surrenders to the Scottish, the country where he was born, the country of his father James, thinking that if he must surrender, the Scottish will treat him more fairly than the vicious anti-royalist Parliament will.

But the Scots make no secret of the fact that they will not harbor him. He will be given to Parliament, once they can settle on an appropriate price. Reparations for their involvement in the war. England cannot guess whether his brother is deriving pleasure from this or not. England’s king is at his mercy, but before he was England’s king, he was Scotland’s prince. Charles was born before James was King of England. Scotland would have been there for his birth.

This civil war has been a divisive, awful thing for everyone involved.

England is escorted to London, slumped over a horse. The aches are persistent, the gnawing hunger from all the besieged cities still not abating. The pillaging done by unpaid Royalist soldiers, still loose in the areas that the Parliamentary armies haven’t completely stamped down their control.

There is a smattering of welcome for him as he’s led to his residence in Westminster, under armed guard. Some of the MPs seem angry with him, others seem relieved, as if his presence has assured their victory, and their right to that victory. A few seem pitying, and a few more contemptuous. Some hold expressions he cannot quite read. Something like awe. Something like fear.

It is only after he has slept a long while, his body slowly healing from the war, that he realizes.

His existence is not common knowledge. The ones who know of him, of England, are the Royal family, and certain members among the Lordship. It is not knowledge that the House of Commons has ever been privy too. It has always been below their station. Beyond their right.

Every member of the House of Commons he met upon returning to London had addressed him as he was, _England, our Nation._

 _What does this mean?_ The uneasy roll of change, crashing against his body, against the walls of his mind. The entirety of the Parliament being aware of his existence…it’s inconceivable. Parliament changes with each new election, to have so many common people, their role in government insecure and changeable, aware of his existence…

But in a country without a king, what other option was there? Who to answer to, who to serve, who to be served by, if there was no monarch?

 _I chose the right side, the King’s side,_ he thinks to himself, firmly, _But in the end, it meant nothing._

The war is over, and everything is going to change.

But it is never that easy.

Charles escapes custody, and does his best to rally the country once more to his cause. England’s body ripples, and seizes, as minor rebellions on the king’s behalf break out in Wales, in Cornwall, across the country. Duplicitous as ever, Scotland agrees to invade from the North on the King’s behalf. Perhaps falling prey to sentiment in the end, and standing by the man who used to be his prince. A second Civil War rolls itself across his country, and the nation bleeds once more.

“Do you see how the King cares more for his crown then for England?” his Parliamentary keepers say, whispering in his ear at his bedside. “He’d rather torture you, subject the people to more years of starvation and death, than submit himself to us and negotiation. Victory is all he cares for, and his kingdom can burn so that he may have it.”

England stares at them, dead-eyed. His nose hasn’t stopped bleeding in weeks.

He has lived through many civil wars, in his life. He has lived through the pain of it, the ache, the bloodshed echoing through his bones, the razed land and pillaged villages rattling his ribs, bruising his eyes and breaking his fingers, feet, cracks and fractures in his legs. This one, undoubtedly, has been the worst. London has survived nearly unscathed, and his heartbeat is steady, and breastbone whole, but every other part of him is ruined. He cannot stand on his own feet without assistance. His breath is wet and raspy, blood staining his lips. The Parliamentarians, these MPs who never before knew of their Nation, see him only as this hobbling husk, leaving trails of red wherever he goes. The armed guard is both necessary and not. Not, because there is no way he could escape in the condition he is in, even if he desired it. And necessary, because they are the ones who hold him upright whenever he needs to move.

And yet, it is not the physical that is the worst about this war. It is the lack of sureness. It is the uncertainty. It is the wavering, deep within him. Civil Wars, as he’s known them, have largely been a lord’s affair. Warring factions, warring dynasties. Never a war where the common people were so heavily involved. Made up so much of the armies. So much of the campaigning. War was an art of the nobles, and to have the nobility defeated by the commons is…

As a Nation, he spends his time with the nobility. It is how they do things. It is how he knows how to exist as himself. He remembers…he can remember that it was different, when he was younger. That when he began to interact with his people, it was in small towns, in villages. With Rome, it was the same. He treated with his commanders and captains, yes, but mingled just as easily with his common footmen.

But England had learned to do differently. He’d learned- he’d learned from the continent, where he learned everything about his own Nationhood. He’d learned that it was a Nation’s duty to mingle with their nobles, their lords, their kings, and only them. To participate in court, in government, was the only way to have a say in their own future. A Nation should stand by his leader, always.

But now his leaders are those common people, who he long ago left behind.

It is a strange and poignant mental twisting, that a civil war has never before subjected him to.

But it is still a war, like all wars, and so it does end, eventually. The King, again, loses.

Negotiations resume between Charles and Parliament. But there is blood in the air, now. Thicker than ever. The Parliamentarians are angry at there being a second war. Angry at Charles. Angry at how dangerous one single man can be. One man in one position of power.

It starts as a whisper, grows to a murmur, crescendos into a vicious chant.

_The King must be tried. The King has committed treason against his people and nation. The King must be put on trial for his life._

“Do you agree, my Lord Nation?” asks one of the Parliamentary leaders, the man called Cromwell. “Do you agree that King Charles has committed treason against you?”

England is well enough to sit up. Well enough to hold his head aloft, and look Cromwell in the eye. Well enough to remain silent out of stubbornness, and not from weakness.

But perhaps, refusing to speak, refusing to pick a side now, at the end of all things, is a form of weakness in itself. He cannot bring himself to say, _No, the King is innocent of those crimes._ He cannot bring himself to say, _Yes, the King is guilty of treason against me and all I represent._

They ask him to attend the trial, a witness, a piece of evidence, and he declines.

They ask him to attend the trial, a witness, a piece of evidence, and he refuses.

They command him to attend the trail, a witness, a piece of evidence, and he spits at them and curses them seven ways.

They attempt to bodily drag him to the trial, which fills him with such indignity and rage that he throws them off of himself with brute force. His superior strength as a Nation overriding his injuries. He shoves past all the guards, smashes men against the wall, and stomps his way back to his rooms, cracked bones creaking and pain singing through his limbs.

He shuts the door and waits for someone to dare and open it. To drag him out again. He may very well kill them if they try. He will not let these Parliamentarians, these MPs, do to him what they did to Charles. Belittling him and neutering him and provoking him to violence. And then turning around and killing him for it, as if they hadn’t backed him into a corner.

He is sympathetic to the King. This war was Parliament’s fault. Charles may have started it but the MPs did everything in their power to leave him with no other choice.

But England cannot bring himself to leave the room to see his King. To see the man in his cell.

He cannot do it.

No one tries to drag him to trial again, and he hears a sound suspiciously like someone installing a deadbolt on his door, as if they’ve decided that he’s a dangerous creature, to be locked away. When the time for judgment and sentencing comes, England is not sent for, and makes no effort to break down the door to attend.

He stares down at his fingers, crooked and bent, healing badly. Then rebreaking, and healing again. His ribs still ache, his legs support him only under extreme duress, but he is healing. The country is healing. The war is over.

King Charles is tried, convicted, and beheaded.

The people, the Commons, tried, convicted, and beheaded the King.

“You will be well now, my Lord Nation,” says that man again, Cromwell, “The war is over, and your people have won.”

\--

The aftershocks ripple.

The House of Commons dismantles not only the monarchy, but the House of Lords, leaving England a kingdom without a king. A Nation ruled by the commons. A republic.

Ireland is still in turmoil. There are upheavals in Scotland as well- on the behalf of the deceased King, and his son, who has been crowned in hiding by those still vocally loyal to the monarchy. Sentiment, on Scotland’s part? Guilt at betraying he who was once his prince? Or simple contrariness? England doesn’t know.

It doesn’t matter. Cromwell and his army defeat them all.

The mood in his kingdom is peculiar. A king is dead, executed on behalf of the people, which has never before occurred. But he was a tyrant king, and so removal of him was justified.

But a trial and execution is so different then death on a battlefield, or death by assassination. There’s something inglorious, almost offensive about it. Something perverse about such a thing being done to a king, a monarch chosen by God. England has not left his own borders in a long while, but he swears he can feel the contempt and revulsion from the continent. _Twisted and backwards Britain_ , he knows they must be saying, _At it again_.

The victories in Ireland and Scotland taste weirdly sour in England’s mouth. But everything does. He thinks it’s a product of being forced to spend so much time with Cromwell. The man has a way of souring the air around him simply by way of his presence. The entire country has taken to smelling of off-milk, curdled, and just a few days away from pungent.

England is not certain whether he’s bothered by the hypocrisy of the situation or not. Why yes, these Parliamentarians who wanted nothing more than to shake off tyranny have set themselves up a military dictatorship, it’s true, but nominally they are still held in place by the people, technically.

Technically.

And if the absolutely ridiculous impositions and restrictions Cromwell is placing on the people seem…well ridiculous, it is only because England still cannot abide by being restricted by religion. Whether it’s Roman Catholicism or Cromwell and his hardline Puritanism is inconsequential.

The focus on this purity, on this minimalism, on this dampening of joy and anything seen as ungodly, leaves England feeling…sour. No wonder the taste can’t leave his mouth.

Is he upset? He can’t tell. He’s afraid if he shows so much as a twitch of emotion Cromwell will cane him in front of the Commons. As literal a metaphorical representation of what he’s doing to the nation itself as possible. England would leave London altogether, perhaps retire to a house in Oxford if not to a fairy glen, but the last time he took a trip out of London Cromwell banned celebrating Christmas.

So, no, England’s going to stay put, for now. Even if it means feeling as if his soul’s been pulled out and replaced with a bowl of sour milk.

Of course, that means he’s still away from Alfred. Dear, sweet Alfred. His boy in America. The war touched there a little, he knows. The influx of Puritans who fled there under the last years of Charles’s rule, the English colonists choosing sides, then the remaining Cavaliers, men loyal to the king, escaping there when the war was lost.

Alfred is still little, but he must know that England has gone through a brutal war. That will not have been concealed from him, and it pains England to know how the lad must worry. He’s never known a true war, he’ll have nothing to compare it to. No point of reference to try and understand what must be happening to his beloved caretaker across the sea.

England misses Alfred, terribly. He misses his smile, and the empty expanse of his land, and the simpleness of his affection. He wishes he could get away to visit him, but he’s afraid of what will occur in his absence if he does.

Additionally, England has no idea if Cromwell, and the Commons, know about Alfred. King Charles did, England had made mention of the boy around him, and his monarch had delighted in the idea of having the boy visit London one day. But the situation in England had been too turbulent at the time for England to even consider it. His fear now is that Cromwell will _demand_ he fetch Alfred to London, perhaps as a show of the unity between England and their colonies across the sea. The idea twists England’s stomach. If he is to show Alfred himself, bring him to England, his kingdom, he wants it at its height, glorious and strong. Not stewing in melancholy and choking under oppression.

It ends, eventually. Because men are mortal, and no monarchy means no dynasties. Cromwell dies, his son cannot maintain the power, and the protectorate, or the commonwealth, or whatever the hell they’re calling it these days, comes to an end.

The English people, it seems, are as tired of the taste of sour milk as England himself is. They call back the Stuarts, and Charles’s son Charles II is declared king. The monarchy is restored.

The streets are filled with rejoicing, with happiness, from the Commons to the laity and everything above and in between. England feels it, swelling in his chest, bubbling in the crown of his head. A feeling of relief, of everything _finally_ being put right. Of a nightmare, over at last.

But the feeling is off, somehow. False. The Parliament has agreed to reset everything back to what it was in 1633, before they started crippling the monarchy’s power. But is that the right decision? The right way? So many men fought and died to give Parliament power, to show that the people were no longer content with the absolute rule of kings, and to return to that with a sweep of a pen…

England is happy to have Charles II on the throne, make no mistake. But he is also uneasy.

He should stay in London for a bit longer. Get to know, or re-know, his royal family. Oversee the return of the monarchy, and ensure that restrictions are placed on the MPs who now know of his existence. He does not want it to remain common practice for the House of Commons to know about him. The current seats must be the last. And he must pay closer attention to the way Parliament and King interact. Whatever else, the events of Charles I’s reign must _not_ be repeated.

England has all this to do and more. And yet…and yet…all he can think about, the single point his thoughts keep returning to is that…Finally, _finally,_ he can return to Alfred. The war is over, the country is settling, and there’s nothing but his own anxiety keeping him moored. He can go. He can _go._

England has been twenty years away, and finally he can return to America.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Split this chapter in half for length. Next chapter will have much, much more Alfred.

**Author's Note:**

> the way i write little england's history and england in general is heavily inspired by Mithrigil’s [ hetalia collection ](http://mithrigil.livejournal.com/425100.html) particularly [ No Such place ](http://mithrigil.livejournal.com/465877.html) I highly reccommend everything in that massive list because it's phenomenal. 
> 
> anyways next part will come...soon? idk, how do people feel about this part.


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